
Class 
Book. 



CUi \t\ 



(bpigtitW. 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



New Dialogues and Plays 

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, AGES TEN TO FIFTEEN 



ADAPTED FROM THE POPULAR WORKS OF 
WELL-KNOWN AUTHORS 



BY 

BINNEY GUNNISON 

Instructor in the School of Expression, Boston ; formerly Instructor in Elocution in 
Worcester Academy, and in Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute 



? 



HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers 

31-33-35 West 15TH Street, New York City 



COPYRIGHT, I9OO, BY HINDS AND NOBLE 
COPYRIGHT, I905, BY HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 



■ Y of CONGRESS 

fwo Copies Koceivea 

APR 17 1905 

Sopyngiu envy 

GUiSS 4 AXC. Mot 
COPY 8/ 






PREFACE 



A collection of Dialogues for the intermediate grades of 
the public school should of necessity be so prepared as to 
give the pupil as well as the teacher sufficient direction and 
suggestion to enable him to get into the spirit of the play. 
In the preparation of this book that end has been kept in 
view. 

The introduction to each dialogue gives at a glance a 
view of the external surroundings, the characters, the cos- 
tumes, and the situations in the play. By a careful reading 
of this introduction the pupil is put in relation to the plot 
and finds himself a part of it. 

It is the duty and the privilege of the manager to select 
the characters for the play, and this he is always better able 
to do when he has noticed the interest with which the play 
is studied by those who are expected to take part. The 
tone of voice, the gait, the physical appearance, the likes 
and dislikes of the pupils are all to be considered in selecting 
the characters for the play, and the suggestions made in 
connection with this collection are such as to insure the 
highest success in the working out of each on the stage. 

It should be noticed also that many of the plays are spe- 
cially adapted for particular occasions which are observed by 
organizations not directly connected with the school work. 
This is one of the valuable features of the book, and we 
respectfully submit it for such purposes as well as for the 
regular school literary society. 

iii 



Some fiew Speakers 



The Best American Orations of To-day (Blackstone) $1.25 

Selected Readings from the Most Popular Novels - 1.00 

Pieces That Have Taken Prizes in Speaking Contests 1.25 
New Pieces That Will Take Prizes in Speaking Contests 1.25 

Pieces for Every Occasion (Le Row) - - - 1.25 

How to Attract and Hold an Audience (Esenwein) 1.00 

How to Use the Voice in Reading and Speaking (Ott) 1.25 

How to Gesture, New Illustrated Edition (Ott) - 1.00 

A Ten Weeks' Course in Elocution (Coombs) - 1.25 

Fenno's New Science and Art of Elocution - - 1.25 

Three-Minute Declamations for College Men - 1.00 

Three-Minute Readings for College Girls - - 1.00 

Handy Pieces to Speak (on cards) - .50 

Acme Declamation Book ----- .50 

Ross' Southern Speaker - - - - - 1. 00 

New Dialogues and Plays (Primary, Inter. , Adv.) 1.50 

Commencement Parts (Orations, Essays, etc.) - 1.50 

Pros and Cons (Questions of To-day Fully Discussed) 1.50 

250 New Questions for Debate - - - - .15 

How to Organize and Conduct a Meeting - - .75 

Palmer's New Parliamentary Manual ... .75 

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HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 
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TABLE OF CONTENTS 



HUMOROUS. 

PAGB 

The Schoolmaster W. T. Adams I 

A Confession of Love IO 

Not Quite John Poole 17 

Captain Kempthorn H. W. Longfellow - - - 26 

The Restless Youth 34 

Testing the Suitors 43 

The Emperor and the Deserter 49 

Mike Gets a Job 55 

The Stupid Lover 58 

Our Daughter - 65 

His Own Pills 70 

Louis XI V. and his Minister - - A. Conan Doyle - - - . 75 

The Challenge Richard Brindsley Sheridan 83 



vSKRIOUS. 
The Homeless Old Man - - - - Hall Caine - - 
The Witch of Vesuvius - - - Bulwer Lytton - 
His Enemy's Honor 

Cleopatra and the Messenger - 
The Bishop's Silver Candlesticks 
The Peasant Boy's Vindication - 
The Baron and the Jew - - - • 



Shakespeare 
Victor Htigo 
Dimond 
Walter Scott 



98 
107 
112 
121 
127 
130 
135 



In Love with his Wife 139 

Christian Forgiveness 145 

A Wife and a Home 151 

Aurelian and Zenobia William Ware 161 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Timothy Tullyhorn, Dr. Pellet, members of the School Com- 
mittee. 
Samuel Simpson, (alias Winthrop Getchell Peabody), 

schoolmaster. 
Situation. — This scene takes place in an ordinary room or 
parlor, fitted with chairs, tables, pe?is, paper and ink. 
The furniture should be arranged for a hearing of 
candidates, Dr. Pellet on one side of room by a table, 
Tullyhorn near centre, and the schoolmaster on the 
other side. Simpson should come in opposite Dr. 
Pellet. 
Enter Samuel Simpson, a well-dressed young man, with cane 
and carpet-bag. 
Simpson. — Well, here I am ! No more college studies 
for three months. Old Dartmouth left behind for the 
season, and a fine prospect of a pleasant winter teaching 
school in this village, and boarding, I suppose, at old Tully- 
horn' s, my father's friend ; curious old fellow, rough, but 
likes a good joke ; is " well-off," as they say here, and has 
a daughter who will divide my attention with the school. 
On the whole an agreeable prospect for the winter. Only 
I should have been here two days ago to have met the com- 
mittee, and now it's Saturday. A joke, if my sore throat 
has cost me the school! But what's this? (Sees a written 

l 



2 THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

notice on the door and reads it aloud.) " The school com- 
mittee will meet in this room on Saturday afternoon at three 
o'clock to examine candidates for teaching the school in 
District No. 5." Well, well, {Consults his watch.) here 
it is half-past two and more, and they are to meet in this 
old tavern-parlor. {Meditates.) Don't understand it ! — 
Yes, I do; old "Tully" is afraid I won't come, and this 
notice is to catch somebody else. I'll play a joke on him. 
{Looks out of the window), and pretty quick, too, for I see 
him coming. {He goes out.) 

Enter Tullyhorn and Pellet, both in an anxious state of 
mind, and sit down by the table. 

Tullyhorn. — Singular ! I say, doctor, never knew the 
young man to fail before ; always prompt, like his father ; 
he has made many an appointment to come to my house 
and never was behind an hour. It's strange ! and school 
must begin on Monday. ( Walks about.) 

Pellet. — Some one may turn up by three o'clock, and if 
so, we'll examine him, and may be find a teacher just as 
good as this Sim Sampson. 

Tullyhorn. — Samuel Simpson. 

Pellet. — Well, Sam Simpson, then ; whatever his name 
is don't matter, unless he puts in an appearance. ( Glances 
out of the window.) But there's a queer-looking man 
coming into the yard; perhaps — but it can't be ! Well, I 

wish 

Enter Samuel Simpson, disguised in a slouch hat, long loose 
overcoat, large overshoes, and with an old faded um- 
brella. He walks up and down in a very awkward 
manner, and looks about with staring eyes. 

Tullyhorn {aside to Pellet). — What do you make of 
him, doctor? 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 3 

Pellet, — A candidate, I guess. 

Tullyhorn. — But he won't do. Just look at him ! But 
I say, doctor, we'll have some lun out of him, if we can 
keep our faces straight. (He speaks loudly to Simpson.) — 
Good day, sir. 

Simpson {turns quick about and seizes Tullyhorn s hand) . 
— Good day, yourself, too ! And I ain't well neither; bad 
cold, sore throat, headache, and sick ! bother it ! 

Pellet. — Be seated, sir. {Offers a chair.) Take a 
chair. 

Simpson. — No, thank you; they allers larn folks down 
our way to stan' urj afore their betters. Be you the school 
committee men? 

Pellet. — Yes, sir ; we have that honor. 

Simpson. — Honor, do you call it? I guess as how I 
remember the old copy-book, " Honor and fame from low 
perdition rise." D'ye 'member it, I say — you ! {Punches 
Tullyhorn in the ribs with his umbrella.) 

Tullyhorn {sharply) . — Your umbrella is as much out of 
place as your quotation. We are members of the school 
committee. 

Simpson. — I's only a-joking with this 'ere p'int of my 
'breller ; it's a way I have. Well, I come to be zamined. 

Pellet. — Very well, sir ; what might your name be ? 

Simpson. — It might he, Balaam, but 'taint; but if you're 
sot on knowing, they call me, down our way, Winthrop 
Getchell Peabody. 

Tullyhorn. — What is your place of residence ? 

Simpson. — My what, sir? 

Tullyhorn. — I merely wish to know where you live. 

Simpson. — Why didn't you say so, if that's what you want 
to know? I suppose I can tell you. You've heern tell of 
Poplin Dracut, I s'pose. 



4 THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

TULLYHORN. ) ~, 

Pellet. } Oh, yes, sir. 

Simpson. — Little joke, you see ! Wall, 'taint there ; but 
it's down to Hull, when I'm to hum. 

Pellet {tries to suppress laughter). — Mr. Getchell, how 
would you govern a school ? In these days of progress and 
reform the mind of the community has undergone a radical 
change in regard to the discipline of common schools, and 
we consider the faculty of government as one of the most 
important qualifications of a teacher. 

Simpson. — Wal, 'tis. I govern a school by mortal in- 
fluence. There's always some who don't care nothing for 
nobody nor nothing, and who don't care whether they larn 
nothing or not; and sick ones you can't get along with 
without licking on 'em some. I've never kept school afore, 
and I s'pose you'd like to know how I come to, this time. 
Wall, I'll tell you. I went down to Aunt Sal's house, t'other 
day ; and Aunt Sal's got two prime pretty darters ; and the 
way them gals put into me about my larnirt and all that, 
and how I ort to keep school, and all that, was a caution. 
So I thort I'd come up and get zamined, and get a stifer- 
cate and then I shouldn't beskeered at any on 'em. Aunt 
Sal's oldest darter, Betsey, is goin' to be married in the 
spring ; she's got all her fixin's ready, and got a likely 
feller, too : and he's got his house built and his shed all 
shingled ; and I shouldn't think strange if I should stood 
up at the weddin' with 

Tullyhorn. — Well, never mind, sir, about Aunt Sally's 
domestic arrangements ; they have nothing to do with the 
examination ; please to inform us to what studies you have 
attended. 

Simpson. — I've studied almost everything. I've studied 
grammar, £<?-ometry, ^-ography, 'rithmetic, Sam Watts's 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 5 

hymns, and Molly Brown's ^-ography, bolosophy, and a 
good many other books I hain't never seen yet. Besides 
all that, I am complete master of the Latin language. I 
will give you a specimen : " Amo ridiculi ridiculo potatus 
sum " 

Pellet. — That'll do, sir. Will you inform us what phi- 
losophy is? 

Simpson. — The heavenly bodies is philosophy, and the 
airthly bodies is philosophy ; and if there's a screw loose in 
the heavenly bodies, that's philosophy; and if there's a 
a screw loose in the airthly bodies, that's philosophy. 
There's a good many kinds of philosophy. 

Tullyhorn. — Very good, sir. What is gravitation? 

Simpson. — It's what makes things come down. 

Tullyhorn. — Who discovered gravitation? 

Simpson. — Old Isaiah Newton down here. You know 
him. He was walking along under an apple-tree, one 
day, and a tater fell down and hit him on the head, and 
that set him to thinking. Guess 'twould a sot i?ie to 
thinking ! 

Pellet. — Your knowledge of philosophy appears to be 
very good and extensive ; therefore we will examine you no 
more in that branch. What's arithmetic, Mr. Peabody? 

Simpson. — Why, it's a book. Should think anybody might 
know that ! 

Pellet. — Into how many parts is arithmetic divided? 
Or, in other words, what are the four fundamental rules ? 

Simpson. — 'Rithmetic is divided into four parts : adop- 
tion, distraction, monopolization, and diversion. ■* 

Tullyhorn. — What is addition? 

Simpson. — If I should give you ten dollars, that would be 
addition ; and if you should give me ten dollars, that would 
be addition i } other end up. 



6 THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Pellet. — What is subtraction? 

Simpson. — Substraction — straction, distraction ! Oh, it's 
when a feller's raging mad. Almost had me there ! 

Pellet. — Yes, sir. What is vulgar fractions? 

Simpson. — Guess that wan't in my book. Let — me — see ; 
vulgar means immodest — don't it? — and fractions means 
all shattered to pieces. Oh, I know now ; it means when 
an immodest man is shattered to pieces . 

Pellet. — What is the first thing you would do if asked 
to calculate an eclipse? 

Simpson. — I'd decline, and that mighty sudden ! 

Tullyhorn. — You will now please to give your attention 
to grammar, as we consider that as among the most im- 
portant studies, and one that has been very much neglected 
in our common schools. What is grammar? 

Simpson. — It's the science as what tells boys and girls 
how to write letters to each other, and talk pretty talk. 

Tullyhorn. — Will you name the principal parts? 

Simpson. — Or-tho-graphy, et-y-mology, swinetax and 
prorosody. 

Pellet. — We will now parse a few words, for the pur- 
pose of seeing whether you fully understand this branch of 
education. In the sentence, "And the minister said to 
him," parse minister. 

Simpson. — Minister is a conjunction. 

Pellet. — What reason can you give for that, sir? 

Simpson. — 'Cause it jines together. 

Pellet. — What does it connect? 

Simpson. — Man and woman. Should think any fool might 
know that ! 

Tullyhorn. — In the sentence, " Shall all the rest sit 
lingering here? " etc. — parse shall. 

Simpson. — Shell's a noun, a common noun, 'cause there's 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 7 

a good many kinds of shells, such as oyster shells, snail- 
shells, chestnut shells, and such like ; third future tense, in- 
delible mode, nomination case to thou or you understood, 
according to Rule IX : Things that are equal to the same 
thing are equal to one another. 

Pellet. — My friend and myself would like to have you 
spell a few words. 

Simpson. — I know all about spells : cold spells, spells of 
weather, wet spells, and 

Pellet. — No matter about those. Can you spell Jacob ? 

Simpson. — I guess ! J-a-k-u-p, Jacob. But they do say 
a leader of the choir up to our meeting got stuck with more 
music than he had words, and so he called it Ja — fol-de- 
riddle — cob. 

Tullyhorn. — What did you say your full name was? 

Simpson. — Winthrop Getchell Peabody. 

Tullyhorn. — Please spell it, for it sounds unusual to us. 

Simpson. — I ought to charge extra, for it is a hard thing 
to do. But here goes : We-e-in — win, throar — double-up, 
thrup, Winthrop ; Gee-e-double-etchell, Getchell ; Peabody, 
eabody-abody-body-ody-dy-y, Peabody ; Winthrop Getchell 
Peabody. I guess I'll set down and rest ! (Sits down.) 
Now I'll just run over it kinder fast, and I guess you'll like 
it. (Spells it very rapidly, and rises.) Say! How's that? 
Any more questions? It 'pears to me you are mighty par- 
ticular ! 

Tullyhorn. — We will not detain you much longer. We 
are pleased — (aside) that's so, isn't it, doctor? — with the 
examination. Make yourself comfortable while we write 
a document for you. 

Simpson (to himself while the committee talk together). — 
Document ! That means stifercate. Well, times ain't now 
as they used to was to be ! It used to was to be as to how 



8 THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

as that anybody could rise into the potent office of school- 
master; but now 'tain't so as how as, without being zamined 
by this larned committee ; and this is the way eddication 
is going to be rizf De-lightful task to rear the infant 
thought, and teach the young idee how to fire ! — (Aside.) 
I do believe I have fooled old Tully ! (He walks up and 
down.) 

Pellet (aside). — Well, Mr. Tullyhorn, what do you say? 
Isn't he a genius? How are we going to get rid of him? 
We have had our fun in asking him questions, but what 
shall we do? 

Tullyhorn. — I'm puzzled ! He's evidently a keen 
Yankee — sharp, shrewd, but totally unfit to teach school ; 
and yet he'll take it hard to be turned off. He little sus- 
pects how we have been making game of him ; and I do 
feel a little guilty. I never will impose on any other person 
while I am on this committee. But I'll ask him a question 
or two, and some way may suggest itself to us to refuse 
him a certificate, without exciting his suspicions or rousing 
his anger. — (Loud.) Mr. Peabody ! 

Simpson (turns quickly with his umbrella over his shoulder 
and knocks off an ornament from a shelf). — Your humble 
servant, sir. Is my certificate ready? You've talked and 
writ long enough to make a dozen ! 

Tullyhorn. — I would like to ask one or two questions 
more. What has been your pursuit in life ? 

Simpson. — Well, if you urge the matter, I must tell you. 
My pursuit has been old Tully's daughter Sarah ! 

Tullyhorn (jumps up in great excitement and strides 
toward candidate. Pellet follows). — What do you mean, 
sir? No hesitation ! By what right do you refer to my 
daughter ? 

Simpson (slowly lays down umbrella and takes various 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 9 

disguising wi'aps off one by one ; at last steps forth in his 
true character). — Well, Mr. Tullyhorn, what do you say, 
now? Who's fooled? Can I have my certificate? Or 
will you send me off? Hey? {Punches his ribs with his 
thumb.) 

Tullyhorn. — You're a sly joker. You rather took the 
advantage of "old Tully." And as for friend Pellet and 
me, we are most ingloriously " sold." But we'll forgive 
you. .Say, doctor? 

Pellet. — Yes, Tully ; but how about his pursuit ? 

Tullyhorn. — We will go straight to the house and see 
about that. {They go out.) 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nicholas Ball, country gentleman with several daughters. 
Count Rossberry, suitor for the hand <?/" Violet. 
Violet, beautiful, eccentric daughter of Ball. 

Situation. — The Count has the consent of Violet's father 
to make love to her, but his approaches have been 
baffled so perfectly that he cannot tell whether she has 
the first i?npulse of affection toward him. He tries in 
the guise of a priest to draw a confession from her, but 
she unmasks him. He then secrets hi7nself behind his 
own port?-ait, hears her confess her love and steps forth 
to claim her. 

The scene takes place in a reception room or parlor. 
One corner is curtained off and behind the curtain is 
the pictiu-e of the Count on an easel The picture 
must be placed a little to one side so that the curtain 
need not be wholly drawn, as the Count is concealed 
there. 

Enter Ball, followed by the Count, disguised as a Friar. 
Ball. — These things premised, you have my full consent 
To try my daughter's humor ; 

But observe me, sir ! 

I will use no compulsion with my child. 

If I had tendered thus her sister Zamora, 

I should not now have mourned a daughter lost ! 

10 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. II 

Enter Violet. 

Violet. — What is your pleasure? 

Ball. — Know this holy man ; {Introducing the Count to 
her.) 

It is the father confessor I spoke of. 
Though he looks young, in all things which respect 
His sacred function he is deeply learned. 

Violet (aside). — It is the Count ! 

Ball. — I leave you to his guidance. 
To his examination and free censure, 
Commit your actions and your private thoughts. 

Violet. — I shall observe, sir — (He goes out. Aside.) 
Nay, 'tis he, I'll swear ! 

Count (aside). — Pray Heaven she don't suspect me ! 
(A/oud.) Well, young lady, you have heard your father's 
commands ? 

Violet. — Yes, and now he has left us alone, what are we 
to do? 

Count. — I am to listen and you are to confess. 

Violet, — What ! And then you are to confess, and I 
am to listen? — (Aside.) Oh! I'll take care you shall do 
penance though. 

Count. — Pshaw ! 

Violet. — Well; -but what am I to confess? 

Count. — Your sins, daughter ; your sins. 

Violet. — What ! all of them ? 

Count. — Only the great ones. 

Violet. — The great ones ! Oh, you must learn those of 
my neighbors, whose business it is, like yours, to confess 
everybody's sins but their own. If now you would be con- 
tent with a few trifling peccadilloes, I would own them to 
you with all the frankness of an author, who gives his reader 



12 A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 

the paltry errata of the press, but leaves him to find out all 
the capital blunders of the work himself. 

Count. — Nay, lady, this is trifling : I am in haste. 

Violet. — In haste! Then suppose I confess my virtues? 
You shall have the catalogue of them in a single breath. 

Count. Nay, then, I must call your father. 

Violet. — Why, then, to be serious : — If you will tell me 
of any very enormous offences which I may have lately 
committed, I shall have no objection in the world to ac- 
knowledge them to you. 

Count. — It is publicly reported, daughter, you are in 
love. 

Violet {aside) . — So, so ! Are you there ? — That I am in 
love. 

Count. — With a man — 

Violet. — Why, what should a woman be in love with ? 

Count. — You interrupt me, lady. — A young man. 

Violet. — I'm not in love with an old one, certainly. — But 
is love a crime, father? 

Count. — Heaven forbid ! 

Violet. — Why, then, you have nothing to do with it. 

Count. — Ay, but the concealing it is a crime. 

Violet. — Oh, the concealing it is a crime. 

Count. — Of the first magnitude. 

Violet. — Why, then, I confess — 

Count. — Well, what? 

Violet. — That the Count Roseberry — 

Count. — Go on ! 

Violet. — Is — 

Count. — Proceed ! 

Violet. — Desperately in love with me. 

Count. — Pshaw! That's not the point ! 

Violet. — Well, well, I'm coming to it : and not being 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 1 3 

able in his own person to learn the state of my affections, 
has taken the benefit of clergy, and assumed the disguise of 
a friar. 

Count. — Discovered ! 

Violet. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — You are but a young masquerader 
or you wouldn't have left your vizor at home. Come, come, 
Count, pull off your lion's apparel, and confess yourself an 
ass. {Count takes off the Friar ' s gown.) 

Count. — Nay, Violet, hear me ! 

Violet. — Not a step nearer ! — The snake is still danger- 
ous, though he has cast his skin. I believe you are the first 
lover on record, that ever attempted to gain the affections 
of his mistress by discovering her faults. Now, if you had 
found out more virtues in my mind than there will ever be 
room for, and more charms in my person than ever my 
looking-glass can create, why, then, indeed — 

Count. — What then? 

Violet. — Then I might have confessed what it's now im- 
possible I can ever confess ; and so farewell, my noble count 
confessor! {She goes out.) 

Count. — Farewell. 
And when I've hit upon the longitude, 
And plumbed the yet unfathomed ocean, 
I'll make another venture for thy love. 
Here comes her father. — I'll be fooled no longer. 
Enter Ball. 

Ball. — Well, sir, how thrive you? 

Count. — E'en as I deserve : 
Your daughter has discovered, mock'd at, and left me. 

Ball. — Yet I've another scheme. 

Count.— What is't? 

Ball. — My daughter, 
Being a lover of my art, of late 



14 A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 

Has vehemently urged to see your portrait ; 

Which, now 'tis finish'd, I stand pledged she shall. 

The picture's here (He indicates with his hand the corner 

curtained off.) and you must stand conceal'd. 
And if, as we suspect, her heart leans tow'rds you, 
In some unguarded gesture, speech or action, 
Her love will suddenly break out. — Be quick ! 
I hear her coming. 

Count. — There's some hope in this. 

Ball. — It shall do wonders. — Hence! (Count conceals 
himself.) 

Enter Violet. 

Violet. — What, is he gone sir? 

Ball. — Gone ! D'ye think the man is made of marble ? 
Yes, he is gone. 

Violet. — For ever? 

Ball. — Ay, for ever. 

Violet. — Alas, poor Count ! — Or has he only left you 
To study some new character? Pray, tell me, 
What will he next appear in ? 

Ball. — This is folly. 
'Tis time to call your wanton spirits home — 
You are too wild of speech. 

Violet. — My thoughts are free, sir ; 
And those I utter 

Ball. — Far too quickly, girl ; 
Your shrewdness is a scarecrow to your beauty. 

Violet. — It will fright none but fools, sir : men of sense 
must naturally admire in us the quality they most value in 
themselves ; a blockhead only protests against the wit of a 
woman, because he cannot answer her drafts upon his un- 
derstanding. But now we talk of the Count, don't you 
remember your promise, sir? 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 1 5 

Ball {aside) . — Umph ! — What promise, girl ? 

Violet. — That I should see your picture of him. 

Ball. — So you shall, when you can treat the original with 
a little more respect. 

Violet. — Nay, sir, a promise ! 

Ball. — But, before I show it, tell me honestly, how do 
you like the Count, his person, and understanding? 

Violet. — Why, as to his person, I don't think he's hand- 
some-enough to pine himself to death for his own shadow, 
like the youth in the fountain — nor yet so ugly as to be 
frightened to dissolution if he should look at himself in a 
glass. Then, as to his understanding, he has hardly wit 
enough to pass for a madman, nor yet so little as to be 
taken for a fool. In short, sir, I think the Count is very 
well worth any young woman's contemplation — when she 
has no better earthly thing to think about. 

Ball. — Now I must go to other business, but the picture 
has been placed here. {He draws curtain so as to conceal 
the Count and goes out.) 

Violet (thinking herself alone) . — Confess that I love the 
Count ! — A woman may do a more foolish thing than to 
fall in love with such a man, and a wiser one than to tell 
him of it. (Looks at the picture.) 'Tis very like him — 
the hair is a shade too dark — and rather too much com- 
plexion for a despairing enamorato. Confess that I love 
him ! — Now there is only his picture. I'll see if I can't 
play the confessor a little better than he did. " Daughter, 
they tell me you're in love?" — "Well, father, there is no 
harm in speaking the truth." — "With the Count Roseberry, 
daughter? " — " Father, you are not a confessor, but a con- 
juror! " — "They add, moreover, that you have named the 
day for your marriage?" — "There, father, you are misin- 
formed ; for like a discreet maiden, I have left that for him 



1 6 A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 

to do." (She turns away from the picture and the Count 
comes forth.) Then he should throw off his disguise — I 
should gaze at him with astonishment — he should open his 
arms, whilst I sunk gently into them — {The Count catches 
her in his arms.) — The Count ! 

Enter Nicholas Ball. 

My father, too ! Nay, then, I am fairly hunted into the 
toil. There, take my hand, Count, while I am free to give 
it. 

TABLEAU. CURTAIN. 



NOT QUITE. 



Adapted trom the play " Paul Pry, 1 ' by John Poole, Esq. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. .Wither ton, an old man, somewhat feeble. 

Paul Pry, a meddlesome inquisitive little man, in fantastic 

costume. 
Willis, a young man, nephew to Mr. Witherton. 
Grasp, steward to Mr. Witherton. 
Mrs. Subtle, a middle-aged woman, of deceitful disposition 

and disagreeable face and manners — housekeeper to 

Mr. Witherton. 

Marian, a young woman. 

A Young Man. 

Situation. — Mr. Witherton, a man of much property is 
entirely under the control of his housekeeper, Mrs. 
Subtle. She has taken him out to walk with the 
distinct purpose to make him offer to marry her. 
Willis and Marian suspect her designs on Mr. Wither- 
ton's property and so are obnoxious to the housekeeper. 
Grasp knows other plots of Mrs. Subtle's, and on the 
strength of his k?iowledge hopes to get her hand in mar- 
riage. Everything is upset, however, by the inquisitive 
Paul Pry. Mr. Witherton's proposal is never made 
to Mrs. Subtle. 

The scene takes place in the sitting-room of Mr. 
Witherton's country residence, 

2 17 



1 8 NOT QUITE. 

Enter Willis and Marian, conversing. 

Willis. — I have reason to believe that Mrs. Subtle's 
grand project is a marriage with my uncle — by the influence 
she would thus obtain over him, our ruin would be accom- 
plished. 

Marian. — And are there no means of preventing their 
marriage ? 

Willis.- — I fear it will be difficult ; when the affections 
of a solitary old man, a slave like him to circumstances and 
habit, are once entangled in the snares of a wily woman, it 
is no easy task to disengage them. But here she and my 
uncle come. We must not be seen together. Ha ! 'tis 
too late — they are here. 

Enter Witherton leaning on Mrs. Subtle's arm. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Gently, sir, gently. (To Marian.) What 
are you doing here ? Why are you not in your own apart- 
ment? 

Marian. — I — I was merely talking to Mr. Willis, ma'am. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Leave the room. 

Witherton. — Speak mildly to her, my good Mrs. Subtle; 
consider — she is young and timid. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Young and timid indeed. 

Witherton. — Go, my dear, Mrs. Subtle is a little severe 
in manner, but she means well. (Marian crosses.) 

Marian. — I obey you, sir. 

Mrs. Subtle (in an undertone) . — Obey me or count not 
on a long continuance here — begone ! (Exit Marian^) 
Leave her to me, sir. (To Witherton.) I understand 
these matters best ; (To Willis, in a gentle tone.) and you, 
Mr. Willis, to encourage a forward chit like that — I'm as- 
tonished at you. 

Willis. — Indeed you mistake me. 



NOT QUITE. ig 

Mrs. Subtle. No matter, leave us. 

Witherton. — Be within call, Willis, I would speak with 
you presently. 

Willis. — I will, sir. (Mrs. Subtle bring* a chair forward 
for Witherton, who seats himself near Mrs. Subtle. ) 

Witherton. — That girl is a favorite of mine, Mrs. Subtle, 
in her way — in her way, I mean. She was strongly recom- 
mended to me, by my friend Colonel Hardy, and I am 
sorry you have conceived so strange an antipathy to her. 

Mrs. Subtle. — And I am surprised you are so strongly 
attached to her. Do you know I am almost — I had nearly 
said a foolish word — jealous of her. 

Witherton. — Jealous ! Now Mrs. Subtle, you would 
banter me. But now we are alone, and secure from inter- 
ruption, tell me what it is you would consult me upon — • 
once while we were out, you were on the point of speaking, 
when we were intruded on by that meddling blockhead, Mr. 
Pry. 

Mrs. Subtle {turning away). — Oh, 'tis nothing, sir, a 
trifle. 

Witherton. — You cannot deceive me; something sits 
heavily at your heart ; explain the cause of it — you know 
me for your friend, your sincere friend. Come, speak 
freely. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Well, then, sir, since I never act in any 
important matter, but by your direction, I would ask your 
advice in this, of all others, the — most important. 

Witherton. — Go on. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Mr. Grasp, who has long been attentive 
to me, at length importunes for my decision on the question 
of marriage. 

Witherton. — Marriage Take a chair, Mrs. Subtle, take 
a chair. {She sits.) 



20 NOT QUITE. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Yes, sir. Hitherto I have never distinctly 
accepted, nor have I rejected the offer of his hand ; wearied 
at length by my indecision, he has this morning insisted on 
knowing my intentions, one way or the other. 

Witherton. — Well, well. 

Mrs. Subtle. — It is a serious question ; my mind is still 
unsettled ; my heart, alas ! takes no part in the question. 
How would you advise me, sir? 

Witherton. — Really, Mrs. Subtle, I was so little prepared 
for such a communication, that I hardly know — Grasp is an 
honest man — a very honest man. 

Mrs. Subtle. — He is a very honest man, yet my own ex- 
perience has taught me that a very honest man may be a 
very — very bad husband. Then although I allow Mr. Grasp 
to be a very well meaning man — his temper 

Witherton. — That is none of the best, certainly. 

Mrs. Subtle. — His manners too — not that I believe he 
would willingly offend, are offensive. Even you, I fear, 
have observed that, for he has frequently addressed you in 
a mode which my affection — I would say, my respect for 
you, have induced me to reprove. 

Witherton. — He does lack urbanity, I grant. 

Mrs. Subtle. — And to me, that is intolerable, for not- 
withstanding my situation here, I can never forget that I 
am the daughter of a gentleman. Then his taste and habits 
differ from mine. 

Witherton. — These are important objections, Mrs. 
Subtle, considering that your first husband was as you have 
told me. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Speak not to me of him, sir, for that re- 
minds me of one of the bitterest periods of my life ; yet 
spite of Mr. Subtle's ill usage of me, I never once forgot 
the duty and obedience of a wife ; but he was young, vain, 



NOT QUITE. 21 

fickle, and I am too late convinced that it is not till a man 
is somewhat advanced in life — till his sentiments and habits 
are formed and fixed, that he can thoroughly appreciate 
the value of a wife's affection, or so regulate his conduct, 
as to insure her happiness, and his own. 

Witherton. — That is a very sensible remark, Mrs. Subtle. 

Mrs. Subtle. — My father was an evidence of the truth 
of it, sir. My father was nearly sixty when he married. 

Witherton. — Indeed ! your own father? 

Mrs. Subtle. — Aye, sir, and he lived to the good old age 
of eighty-seven. But he was happy, and enjoyed a con- 
tented mind. How tenderly my poor mother loved him. 

Witherton. — What was her age? 

Mrs. Subtle. — When she married him, about mine, sir. 
I believe it was the contemplation of the picture of their 
felicity, so constantly before my eyes, that confirmed my 
natural disposition for the quiet of domestic life. Ah, had 
I been fortunate in the selection of a partner. 

Witherton. — Much — everything, depends on that, and I 
think that Grasp is not altogether — he is not at all the 
husband for you. 

Mrs. Subtle. — So my heart tells me, sir ; yet, when I 
quit your house, would you have me live alone ? without a 
protector? 

Witherton. — How ! quit my house ! 

Mrs. Subtle. — Alas, that must I whether I accept his 
proposals or not. Yet let not that distress you, sir, for I 
doubt not — I hope, that when I am gone, my place may be 
supplied by some one equally attentive to your comforts, 
your happiness. 

Witherton. — Do I hear aright? Quit my house, and 
wherefore ? 

Mrs. Subtle. — I hardly know in what words to tell you ; 



2 2 NOT QUITE. 

and, after all, perhaps you will say I am a silly woman, to 
regard such idle slander, who can control the tongue of 
scandal? My care of you, my attentions, my unceasing 
assiduities, become the subject of remark ; but I had re- 
solved not to mention this to you ; my unwearied attention 
to you, which is the result of mere duty — of friendship — 
perhaps of a sisterly affection, is said to spring from a 
deeper — a warmer source 

Witherton. — And were it so, dear Mrs. Subtle, are we 
accountable to a meddling world 

Mrs. Subtle. — Ah, sir, you, a man, strong in the recti- 
tude of your conduct, master of your own actions, master 
of your own actions, I say, and independent of the world, 
may set at naught its busy slanders. But I, an humble, 
unprotected woman — no, the path of duty lies straight be- 
fore me ; I must give my hand where I feel I cannot bestow 
my heart, and for ever quit a house where I have been but 
too happy. 

Witherton. — Nay, by heaven, but you shall not ; must 
your happiness be sacrificed? mine too? Ay, mine. 

Mrs. Subtle {rises). — Hold, sir, say no more. Do not 
prolong a delusion which I am endeavoring to dispel. If 
I have unwarily betrayed to you a secret, which I have 
scarcely dared to trust even to my own thoughts ; if I have 
foolishly mistaken the kindness of a friend, for a more 
tender sentiment, forgive my presumption, and forgive her 
who, but for the lowliness of her station, might as an affec- 
tionate and devoted wife, have administered to your happi- 
ness ; who conscious of her own unworthiness, must soon 
behold you for the last time. 

Witherton. — Stay, dearest Mrs. Subtle, and listen to 
your friend, your best and truest friend. First promise me, 
that here you will remain. 



NOT QUITE. 23 

Mrs. Subtle. — But you have not yet advised me respect- 
ing Mr. Grasp's proposal, and I have promised him an 
immediate reply. 

Witherton. — Attend to what I am about to say, and 
then, dearest Mrs. Subtle, let your own heart dictate your 
choice. 

Mrs. Subtle {aside). — Tis done! 

Witherton. — Were I longer to hesitate, I should be 
negligent of my own happiness, and unjust towards your 
merits ; for if an attachment, long and severely tried, were 

not of itself sufficient to warrant me in (A knock at 

the door.) 

Mrs. Subtle (as Witherton starts tip). — Curse on the 
interruption, when but another word had realized my 
hopes. 

Enter Paul Pry. 

Pry. — Oh, ha, I see, billing and cooing, I hope -I don't 
intrude ? 

Mrs. Subtle.— You do, sir. 

Pry. — Well, I am very sorry, but I came to show you the 
Country Chronicle; there is something in it I thought 
might interest you ; two columns-full about a prodigious 
gooseberry, grown by Mrs. Nettlebed at the Priory. Most 
curious, shall I read it to you? 

Witherton. — No, you are very good. (Turns up im- 
patiently.) 

Pry. — I perceive I am one too many. Well now, upon 
my life, ( Whispers her.) if I had entertained the smallest 
idea 

Mrs. Subtle. — What do you mean, sir. 

Pry (speaks mysteriously). — Bless you, I see things 
with half an eye ; but never fear me, I'm as close as wax. 



24 NOT QUITE. 

Now, I say Mrs. Subtle, between ourselves — it shall go no 
farther, there is something in the wind, eh ? 

Mrs. Subtle. — I don't understand you. 

Pry. — Well, well, you are right to be cautious ; only I 
have often thought to myself it would be a good thing for 
both of you, he is rich — no one to inherit his fortune, and 
by all accounts, you have been very kind to him, eh? 

Mrs. Subtle. — Sir ! 

Pry. — I mean no harm, but take my advice ; service is 
no inheritance, as they say. Do you look to number one ; 
take care to feather your nest. You are still a young woman, 
under forty, I should think, thirty-eight now — there, or 
thereabouts, eh? 

Mrs. Subtle. — My respect for Mr. Witherton forbids me 
to say that his friend is impertinent. 

Witherton {to himself). — This intrusion is no longer 
to be borne. {Comes down near Pry.) Have you any 
particular business with me, sir? 

Pry. — Yes, you must know, I've seen a young fellow 
lurking about your friend Hardy's house, and I suspect 
there is something not right going forward in his family. 

Witherton. — That is his business, not mine, sir. 

Pry. — True, but I have been thinking that as you are 
his friend, it would be but friendly if you were just to drop 
in, and talk to him about it. 

Witherton. — That is my business, and not yours. 

Pry. — I don't say the contrary, but at all events, I'm 
determined to keep watch over 

Witherton. — That is your business, therefore you may 
do as you please ; yet let me suggest to you, that this un- 
happy propensity of yours to meddle in matters which 
do not concern you, may one day or other produce very 
mischievous effects. 



NOT QUITE. 25 

Pry. — Now I take that unkindly; what interest have I 
in trying to do a good-natured thing? Am I ever a gainer 
by it? But I'll make a vow that from this time forward I'll 
never interfere. Hush ! there he is again ; will you do 
me a favor ? just allow me to go out this way. 

Witherton. — Any way out you please. 

Pry. — I'll give the alarm, and if I let him escape me this 
time — Follow ! follow ! follow ! {He goes out.) Now, my 
lively spark, I'll have you. 

Witherton. — What can be the meaning of all this ! 
That busy fellow's interruption has thrown all my ideas into 
confusion. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Be composed, sir, take a chair and let 
us resume — — 

Enter Grasp abmptly. 

Well, what is it you want, Mr. Grasp? 

Grasp {gruffly). — You ! 

Witherton. — Mrs. Subtle is engaged just now. 

Grasp. — No matter, she must come with me, I have 
something to say to her. 

Mrs. Subtle. — I'll come to you presently. 

Grasp. — You must come at once. I am not to be made 
a dupe — come. — Mr. Willis is waiting to see you in the 
library, sir — now, Mrs. Subtle, if you please. {Crosses 
and goes out.) 

Witherton. — Return quickly, dear Mrs. Subtle, and 
promise nothing till you have again consulted me. 

Mrs. Subtle. I will obey you, sir ; you see how easily 
we poor weak women are diverted from our better resolu- 
tions. ( Witherton goes out.) He is almost mine. (She 
follows Grasp out.) 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 



Adapted from " John Endicott," by Longfellow. 



CHARACTERS. 

Simon Kempthorn, Captain of the Sivallow, a rough, ho?iest 

man of middle age. 
Ralph Goldsmith, another sea-captain. 
Edward Butler, treasurer of the Commonwealth, an old 

man with an ear trumpet. 
Walter Merry, tithing-man of the colony, a tall thin man, 

with a hooked nose. 
Two citizens and a crowd. 

Situation. — Simon Kempthorn has brought to Boston three 
Quakers whom the authorities have ptit in prison and 
scourged. Captain Kempthorn has been put in. the 
pillory for swearing and has also been bound by a bond 
of one hundred pounds to carry the Quakers back, In 
the second scene he is at the tavern of the Three Mari- 
ners puzzling as to how he will get away from port. 

TJicre are lists of rules of good behavior hung up on 
the tavern walls. 

The events are supposed to take place in Boston in 
1665. 

Scene I. 

A street in front of the town house. Kempthorn in the 
pillory. Merry and a crowd are looking on. 

Kempthorn {sings), — 

36 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 27 

The world is full of care, 

Much like unto a bubble ; 
Women and care, and care and women, 
And women and care and trouble. 
Good Master Merry, may I say confound? 

Merry. — Ah, that you may. 

Kempt horn. — Well, then, with your permission, 
Confound the Pillory ! 

Merry. — That's the very thing 
The joiner said who made the Shrewsbury stocks. 
He said, confound the stocks, because they put him 
Into his own. He was the first man in them. 

Kempthorn. — For swearing, was it? 

Merry. — No, it was for charging ; 
He charged the town too much, and so the town, 
To make things square, set him in his own stocks, 
And fined him five pound sterling, — just enough 
To settle his own bill. 

Kempthorn. — And served him right ; 
But, Master Merry, is it not eight bells? 

Merry. — Not quite. 

Kempthorn. — For, do you see? I'm getting tired 
Of being perched aloft here in this cro' nest 
Like the first mate of a whaler, or a Middy 
Mast-headed, looking out for land ! Sail ho ! 
Here comes a heavy-laden merchantman. 
With the lee clews eased off, and running free 
Before the wind. A solid man of Boston 
A comfortable man, with dividends, 
And the first salmon, and the first green peas. 

A gentleman passes. 
He does not even turn his head to look. 
He's gone without a word. Here comes another, 



28 CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 

A different kind of craft on a taut bowline, — 
Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, 
A pious and a ponderous citizen, 
Looking as rubicund and round and splendid 
As the great bottle in his own shop window! 

Deacon Firman passes. 
And here's my host of the Three Mariners, 
My creditor and trusty taverner, 
My corporal in the Great Artillery ! 
He's not a man to pass me without speaking. 

Cole looks away and passes. 
Don't yaw so; keep your luff, old hypocrite! 
Respectable, ah, yes, respectable. 
You, with your seat in the new Meeting-house, 
Your cow-right on the Common! But who's this? 
I did not know the Mary Ann was in! 
And yet this is my old friend, Captain Goldsmith, 
As sure as I stand in the bilboes here. 
Why, Ralph, my bow ! 

Ralph Goldsmith comes in. 

Goldsmith. — Why, Simon, is it you ? 
Set in the bilboes? 

Kempthorn. — Chock-a-block, you see, 
And without chafing-gear. 

Goldsmith. — And what's it for? 

Kempthorn. — Ask that starbowline with the boat-hook 
there, 
That handsome man. 

Merry (bowing) . — For swearing. 
Kempthorn. — In this town 
They put sea-captains in the stocks for swearing, 
And Quakers for not swearing. So look out. 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 29 

Goldsmith. — I pray you set him free ; he meant no harm ; 
'Tis an old habit he picked up afloat. 

Merry. — Well, as your time is out, you may come down. 
The law allows you now to go at large. 
Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the Common. 

Kempthorn. — Now, hearties, bear a hand ! Let go and 
haul. 

Kempthorn is set free, and conies forward, shaking Gold- 
smith's hand. 

Kempthorn. — Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, how good 
it feels! 
The hand of an old friend. 

Goldsmith. — God bless you, Simon! 

Kempthorn. — Now let us make a straight wake for the 
tavern 
Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole commander; 
Where we can take our ease, and see the shipping, 
And talk about old times. 

Goldsmith. — First I must pay 
My duty to the Governor, and take him 
His letters and despatches. Come with me. 

Kempthorn. — I'd rather not. I saw him yesterday. 

Goldsmith. — Then wait for me at the Three Nuns and 
Count. 

Kempthorn. — I thank you. That's too near the town 
pump. 
I will go with you to the Governor's. 
And wait outside there, sailing off and on ; 
If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal. 

Merry. — Shall I go with you and point out the way? 

Goldsmith. — Oh, no, I thank you. I am not a strangei 
Here in your crooked little town. 



3<=> CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 

Merry. — How now, sir? 
Do you abuse our town ? (He goes out.) 

Goldsmith. — Oh, no offence. 

Kempthorn. — Ralph, I am under bonds for a hundred 
pound 

Goldsmith. — Hard lines. What for ? 

Kempthorn. — To take some Quakers back 
I brought here from Barbadoes in the Swallow. 
And how to do it I don't clearly see, 
For one of them is banished, and another 
Is sentenced to be hanged ! What shall I do? 

Goldsmith. — Just slip your hawser on some cloudy night ; 
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon! (They go out.) 

Scene II. 

The parlor of the Three Mariners. Kempthorn comes in. 

Kempthorn. — A dull life this, — a dull life anyway ! 
Ready for sea ; the cargo all aboard, 
Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing 
From nor'-nor'-west ; and I, an idle lubber, 
Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond! 
I said to Ralph, says I, " What's to be done? " 
Says he : " Just slip your hawser in the night ; 
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon." 
But that won't do ; because, you see, the owners 
Somehow or other are mixed up with it. 
Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole 
Thinks as important as the Rule of Three. (Reads.) 
" Make no comparisons ; make no long meals." 
Those are good rules and golden for a landlord 
To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed! 
" Maintain no ill opinions ; urge no healths." 

{He steps to the table and drinks from a tankard of ale?) 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 31 

I drink the King's, whatever he may say, 
And, as to ill opinions, that depends. 
Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion, 
And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion ; 
And both of these opinions I'll maintain 
As long as there's a shot left in the locker. 

Edward Butler with an ear-trumpet comes in, 

Butler. — Good morning, Captain Kempthorn. 

Kempthorn. — Sir, to you. 
You've the advantage of me. I don't know you. 
What may I call your name? 

Butler. — That's not your name ? 

Kempthorn (?-aises his voice). — Yes, that's my name. 
What's yours? 

Butler. — My name is Butler. 
i am the treasurer of the Commonwealth. 

Kempthorn. — Will you be seated? 

Butler. — What say? Who's conceited? 

Kempthorn. — Will you sit down ? 

Butler. — Oh, thank you. 

Kempthorn {in a lower tone). — Spread yourself upon 
this chair, sweet Butler. 

Butler (sitting down). — A fine morning. 

Kempthorn. — Nothing's the matter with it that I know 
of. 
I have seen better, and I have seen worse. 
The wind's nor' west. {Very load). That's fair for them 
that sail. 

Butler. — You need not speak so loud ; I understand you. 
You sail to-day. 

Kempthorn. — No, I don't sail to-day. 
So, be it fair or foul ; it matters not 
Say, will you smoke ? There's choice tobacco here. 



32 CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 

Butler. — No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke. 

Kempthorn. — Then, will you drink? There's good ale 
at this inn. 

Butler. — No thank you. It's against the law to drink. 

Kempthorn (not so loud). — Well, almost everything's 
against the law, 
In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing, 
You're sure to fetch up soon on something else. 

Butler. — And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. 
I am not one of those who think a sup 
Of this New England air is better worth 
Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale. 

Kempthorn. — Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the 
air. 
But, as I said, I do not sail to-day. 

Butler. — Ah, yes ; you sail to-day. 

Kempthorn. — I'm under bonds 
To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes ; 
And one of them is banished, and another 
Is sentenced to be hanged. 

Butler. — No, all are pardoned, 
All are set free, by order of the Court ; 
But some of them would fain return to England. 
You must not take them. Upon that condition 
Your bond is cancelled. 

Kempthorn [aside). — Ah, the wind has shifted ! 
{To Butler.) I pray you, do you speak officially ? 

Butler. — I always speak officially. To prove it, 
Here is the bond. (He rises and gives paper.) 

Kempthorn. And here's my hand upon it. 
And, look you when I say I'll do a thing 
The thing is done. Am I now free to go? 

Butler. What say? 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 33 

Kempthorn {aside). — I say, confound the tedious man 
With his strange speaking-trumpet! (To Butler.) — Can 
I go? 

Butler. — You're free to go, by order of the Court. 
Your servant, sir. (He goes out.) 

Kempthorn (shouting from the window). 
Swallow, ahoy! Hallo! 

( To himself). If ever a man was happy to leave Boston, 
That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow ! 

Butler comes back. 

Butler. — Pray did you call? 

Kempthorn. — Call? Yes, I hailed the Swallow. 

Butler. — That's not my name. My name is Edward 
Butler. 
You need not speak so loud. 

Kempthorn (shaking hands). Good by ! Good by! 

Butler. — Your servant, sir. 

Kempthorn. — And yours a thousand times! (They go 
out.) 

3 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 



CHARACTERS. 

Henry Swift, a retired tailor, small and slow. 

John Swift, his son, flashily dressed, of shallow brain and 

always in gieat haste. 
Mr. Houghton, a rich retired brewer. 
Miss Houghton, his daughter. 
A waiter, a servant. 

Situation. — Young Swift a spendthrift son, returns to his 
father, discovers that the old man is wealthier than he 

supposed, and hurries him off to call on a rich brewer 

in the vicinity who has a pretty daughter. The fun of 

the dialogue centres in the restlessness of young Swift. 
Old Swift in the second scene carries a cane just a 

yard long, and it has a mark or ribbon in the centre to 

mark the half-yard. 

The dialogue takes place in a small country town in 

England. 

Scene I. 

A poorly furnished room. Young Swift enters dragging in 
his father who has just been roused from sleep, and 
wears a dressing-gown. 
Swift. — Come along, dad. 

Father {yawning half-awake - ) . — Yes, sir, — yes, sir — I'll 
measure you directly — I'll measure you directly. 
Swift.— He's asleep. Awake ! 

34 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 35 

Father. — What's the matter, eh? What's the matter? 

Swift. — What's the matter? I've found fifty thousand 
in that letter. [He points to a letter protruding from the 
pocket of 'his father 's coat which lies on a chair.) 

Father. — Indeed! {Opens the letter eagerly.) Ah! 
Johnny have you found out — 

Swift. — I have — that you are worth — how much? 

Father. — Why, since what's past 

Swift. — Never mind what's past. 

Father. — I've been a fortunate man. My old partner 
used to say, " Ah ! you af"e lucky, Swift. Your needle 
always sticks in the right place." 

Swift. — No, not always. {Shrugging.) But how much? 

Father. — Why, as it must out, there are fifty thousand 
lent on mortgage. Item, fifteen thousand in the consols — 
item — 

Swift. — Never mind the items. The total, my dear dad, 
the total. 

Father. — What do you think of a plum? 

Swift. — A plum ! oh, sweet, agreeable, little, short 
word ! 

Father. — Besides seven hundred and ninety 

Swift. — Never mind the odd money ; that will do. But 
how came you so rich, dad? Hang me, you must have 
kept moving. 

Father. — Why, my father, forty years ago, left me five 
thousand pounds ; which, at compound interest, if you mul- 
tiply 

Swift. — No ; you have multiplied it famously. {Aside.) 
It's my business to reduce it. — Now, my dear dad, in the 
first place, never call me Johnny. 

Father. — Why, what must I call you? 

Swift. — John — short — John. 



3 6 THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 

Father. — John! oh, John ! 

Swift. — That will do. And in the next place, sink the 
tailor. Whatever you do, sink the tailor. 

Father. — Sink the tailor ! what do you mean ? 

Swift. — I've news for you. We are going to be intro- 
duced to Mr. Houghton the rich brewer. 

Father. — You don't say so ! Huzzah! it will be the 
making of us. 

Swift. — To be sure. Such fashion ! such style ! 

Father. — Ah, and such a quantity of liveries, and — oh, 
dear me. ( With great dejection.) 

Swift. — What's the matter? 

Father {sighing) . — I forgot I had left off business. 

Swift. — Business ! confound it ! Now, pray keep the 
tailor under, will you? I'll — I'll send a telegram to London. 
{Runs to the table.) 

Father. — A telegram! for what? 

Swift. — I don't know. 

Waiter enters. 

Waiter. — The bill of fare, gentlemen. 

Swift. — Bring it here. {Reads.) "Turbots — salmon — 
soles — haddock — beef — mutton — veal — lamb — pork — 
chickens — ducks — turkeys — puddings — pies. Serve it all; 
that's the short way. 

Waiter. — All ! 

Swift. — Every bit. 

Father. — No, no, nonsense. The short way, indeed ! 
Come here, sir. Let me see — {reads.) "urn — um. Ribs 
of beef." That's a good thing ; I'll have that. 

Swift. — What ? 

Waiter. — Ribs of beef, sir. 

Swift. — Are they the short ribs? 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 37 

Waiter. — Yes, sir. 

Swift. — That's right. 

Waiter. — What liquor would your honor like? 

Swift {jumping up.) — Spruce beer. 

Waiter. — Very well, sir. 

Swift. — I must have some clothes. 

Father. — I'm sure, that's a very good coat. 

Swift. — Waiter ! I must have a dashing coat, for the 
nabob. Is there a rascally tailor anywhere near you? 

Waiter. — Yes, sir; there are two close by. {They look 
at each other.) 

Swift. — Umph ! then tell one of them to send me some 
clothes. 

Waiter. — Sir, he must take your measure. 

Father. — To be sure he must. 

Swift. — Oh, true! I remember the fellows do measure 
you somehow with long bits of — well send for the scoun- 
drel. {Exit Waiter.) 

Father. — Oh, for shame of yourself ! I've no patience. 

Swift. — Like you the better ; hate patience as much as 
you do ; ha, ha ! must swagger a little. 

Father. — Ah ! I'm too fond of you, I am, John. Take 
my fortune, but only remember this — by the faith of a man, 
I came by it honestly — and all I ask is, that it may go as it 
came. 

Swift. — Certainly. But we must keep moving, you know. 

Father. — Well, I don't care if I do take a bit of a walk 
with you. 

Swift. — Bit of a walk ! hang it ! we'll have a gallop to- 
gether. Come along, dad. Push on, dad. {Swift grabs the 
coat from the chair and pushes his father before him out of 
the room. His father tries in vain to take off his dressing 
gown.) 



38 THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 

Scene II. 

A finely furnished aparttnent in the mansion <?/Mr. Hough- 
ton. Enter Swift and his father, Mr. Houghton and 
daughter. 

Miss Houghton. — Welcome to Houghtonham Hall, gen- 
tlemen. 

Swift. — Charming house ! plenty of room I {Runs about 
and looks at everything.) 

Father. — A very spacious apartment indeed. 

Houghton. — Yes, sir ; but, I declare, I forget the dimen- 
sions of this room. 

Father. — Sir, if you please, I'll measure it — my cane is 
exactly a yard, good, honest measure ; 'tis handy — and that 
mark is the half-yard 

Swift (overhears and snatches the cane from hint). — Con- 
found it ! the pictures, father — look at the pictures ; (point- 
ing with the cane) did you ever see such charming 

Miss Houghton. — Do you like pictures ? 

Swift. — Exceedingly, ma'am ; but I should like them a 
great deal better, if they just moved a little. 

Miss Houghton. — Ha ! ha ! I must retire to dress ; till 
dinner, gentlemen, adieu. (She goes out.) 

Swift (to his father). — Father ! you'll ruin everything! 
can't you keep the tailor under ? 

Houghton. — Your son seems rather impatient. 

Father. — Very, sir, — always was. I remember a certain 
duke 

Swift. — That's right, lay the scene high ; push the duke ; 
push him as far as he'll go. 

Father. — I will, I will. I remember a certain duke used 
to say, " Mr. Swift, your son is as sharp as a needle." 

Swift. — At it again 1 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 39 

Father. — As a needle 

Swift {interrupting him). — Is true to the pole. As a 
needle is true to the pole, says the duke, so will your son, 
says the duke be to everything spirited and fashionable, 
says the duke. {Aside to his father.) Am I always to be 
tortured with your infernal needles? 

Houghton {aside) . — Now to sound them. — I hear gen- 
tlemen, your business in this part of the country is with Sir 
Hubert Stanley, respecting some money transactions. 

Father. — 'Tis a secret, sir. 

Houghton. — Oh ! no — the baronet avows his wish to 
sell his estate. 

Father. — Oh, that alters the case. 

Houghton.— I think that it would be a desirable pur- 
chase for you — I should be happy in such neighbors — and 
if you should want forty or fifty thousand, ready money, 
I'll supply it with pleasure. 

Father. — Oh, sir, how kind ! If my son wishes to pur- 
chase it, 1 would rather leave it entirely with him. 

Swift. — And I would rather leave it entirely to you. 

Houghton.— Very well, I'll propose for it. There is a 
very desirable borough interest ; then you could sit in par- 
liament. 

Swift. — I in parliament? ha! ha! 

Father. — No! that would be a botch. 

Swift. — No, no ; I was once in the gallery — crammed 
in — no moving — expected to hear the great guns — up got a 
little fellow, nobody knew who, gave us a three hours' 
speech — I got deuced fidgetty — the house called for the 
question, I joined in the cry — " the question, the ques- 
tion ! " says I — a member spied me — cleared the gallery — 
got hustled by my brother spectators — obliged to scud — oh ! 
it would never do for me. 



40 THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 

Houghton. — But you must learn patience. 

Swift. — Then make me speaker — if that wouldn't teach 
me patience, nothing would. 

Houghton. — Do you dislike, sir, parliamentary eloquence ? 

Father. — Sir, I never heard one of your real, downright 
parliamentary speeches in my life — never. {Yawns.') 

Swift. — By your yawning, I should think you had heard 
a great many. 

Houghton. — Oh, how lucky ! at last I shall get my dear 
speech spoken. Sir, I am a member, and I mean to 

Swift. — Keep moving. 

Houghton. — Why, I mean to speak, I assure you; 
and 

Swift. — Push on, then. 

Houghton. — What, speak my speech? That I will — 
I'll speak it. 

Swift (to his father). — Oh, the mischief! don't yawn 
so. 

Father {to his son). — I never get a comfortable nap, 
never ! 

Swift {to his father).- — You have a very good chance 
now — confound all speeches — oh ! 

Houghton. — Pray be seated. {They sit one on each 
side of Houghton.) Now we will suppose that the chair. 
{He points to a chair.) 

Father. — Suppose it the chair! Why, it is a chair, isn't 
it? 

Houghton. — Pshaw! I mean 

Swift. — He knows what you mean — 'tis his humor. 

Houghton. — Oh, he's witty ! 

Swift. — Oh, remarkably brilliant indeed. (He looks 
significantly at his father.) 

Houghton (to the father). — What, are you a wit, sir? 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 4 1 

Father. — A what? Yes, I am — I am a wit. 

Houghton. — Well, now I will begin. Oh, what a delic- 
ious moment! The house when they approve, cry " Hear 
him, hear him ! " I only give you a hint in case anything 
should strike you. 

Swift. — Push on. — {Aside.) I can never stand it. 

Houghton. — Now shall I charm them. (He addresses 
the chair.) " Sir, had I met your eye at an earlier hour, I 
should not have blinked the present question, but having 
caught what has fallen from the opposite side, I shall scout 
the idea of going over the usual ground " — (Aside.) What? 
no applause yet? (Old Swift has fallen asleep and young 
Swift has risen and gone to the back of the platform and is 
presumably looking out of the window?) " But I shall proceed, 
and I trust without interruption." (He looks round and 
discovers the father asleep?) Upon my soul, this is — what 
do you mean, sir? 

Father (waking up). — What's the matter? — Hear him! 
hear him ! 

Houghton. — Pray, sir, do you not blush at this — (He 
catches sight of young Swift at the window.) What the devil ! 

Swift (looking round) . — Hear him ! hear him ! 

Houghton (in despair). — By the soul of Cicero, 'tis too 
much! 

Father. — Oh, Johnny, for shame to fall asleep! — I mean, 
to look out of the window. I am very sorry, sir, anything 
should go across the grain — (Aside.) I say, John, smooth 
him down. 

Swift (to his father). — I will, I will; but what shall I 
say? — (Aloud.) The fact is, sir, I heard a cry of fire — 
upon — the — the — the water, and, 

Houghton. — Well, but do you wish to hear the end of 
my speech? 



42 THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 

Swift. — Upon my honor, I do. 

Houghton. — Then we will only suppose this little inter- 
ruption a message from the Lords, or something of that 
sort. (The Swifts sit; young Swift twists about uneasily?) 
Where did I leave off? 

Swift. — Oh ! I recollect ; at "I therefore briefly con- 
clude with moving an adjournment." (He rises.) 

Houghton. — Nonsense ! no such thing ! (He puts the 
young man down in the chair.) Oh! I remember! "I 
shall therefore proceed, and I trust without interruption " 

Servant e?iters. 
Get out of the room, you villain ! — " Without interrup- 
tion " 

Servant. — I say, sir 



Swift. — Hear him ! hear him ! 

Servant. — Dinner is waiting. 

Swift (jumping up). — Dinner waiting! Come along, 
sir. 

Houghton. — Never mind the dinner. 

Swift. — But I like it smoking. 

Father. — So do I. Be it ever so little, let me have it 
hot. 

Houghton. — Won't you hear my speech? 

Swift. — To be sure we will — but now to dinner. Come, 
we'll move together. Capital speech ! Push on, sir. Come 
along, dad. Push him on, dad. ( They force Houghton out.) 



TESTING THE SUITORS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Squire Penniman, a kind, but shrewd gentleman of middle 
life. 

Colonel Harrington, a self-confident, fine-appearing young 
man of great wealth and aristocracy. 

Mr. Carter, a modest, honest young man, of no great fortune 
orfa?nily. 

A Servant. 

Situation. — Squire Penniman is the guardian of a fair 
young lady, Ada Denton, who has innumerable suitors. 
Two in particular claim her hand. The Squire takes 
advantage of the failure of Brown and Company to 
find out by stratagem the real worth of the two suitors 
and the sincerity of their affections. 

The value of the dialogue depends on showing the 
great devotion of the Colonel at first and his vain at- 
tempts to explain himself later. 

The sce?ie is laid in the elegant library of Squire 

Penniman. There are books, a desk, table, etc., in the 

room. 

Enter Squire Penniman, followed by a servant. 

Squire Penniman {speaking to servant). — Not at home 

to any one, excepting Colonel Harrington and Mr. Carter. — 

{Servant goes out.) This failure of Brown's great house, 

43 



44 TESTING THE SUITORS. 

however deplorable in itself, at least bids fair to put an end 
to my troubles as a guardian. Ever since Ada Denton has 
been under my care, she has been besieged by as many 
suitors as Penelope. We shall see whether the poor des- 
titute girl will prove as attractive as the rich heiress. Har- 
rington is an ardent lover, Carter a modest one ; Harring- 
ton is enormously rich, Carter comparatively poor; but 

whether either 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Colonel Harrington, sir. 

Enter Colonel Harrington. 

Squire. — My dear Colonel, good morning ! I took the 
liberty of sending for you. {Servant goes out.) 

Colonel Harrington {bows). — Most proud and happy 
to obey your summons. I believe that I am before my 
time ; but where the heart is, you know, Squire Penniman — 
how is the fair Ada Denton? I hope she caught no 
cold in the Park yesterday? 

Squire. — None that I have heard of. 

Colonel. — And that she has recovered the fatigue of 
Tuesday's ball? 

Squire. — She does not complain. 

Colonel. — But there is a delicacy, a fragility in her love- 
liness, that mingles fear of her health, with admiration of 
her beauty. 

Squire. — She is a pretty girl, and a good girl ; and a very 
good girl, considering that, in her quality of an heiress, 
she has been spoilt by the adulation of every one that has 
approached her ever since she was born. 

Colonel {with great apparent devotion) . — Oh, my dear 
sir, you know not how often I have wished that Miss Denton 
were not an heiress, that I might have an opportunity of 



TESTING THE SUITORS. 45 

proving to her and to you the sincerity and disinterested- 
ness of my passion. 

Squire. — I am glad to hear you say so. 

Colonel. — I may hope, then, for your approbation and 
your influence with your fair ward ? You know my fortune 
and family? 

Squire. — Both are unexceptionable. 

Colonel. — The estate which I inherited from my father 
is large and unencumbered ; that which will devolve to me 
from the maternal side, is still more considerable. I am 
the last of my race, Squire Penniman ; and my mother and 
aunts are, as you may imagine, very desirous to see me 
settled. They are most anxious to be introduced to Miss 
Denton ; my aunt, Lady Lucy, more particularly so. Ada 
Denton, even were she portionless, is the very creature 
whom they would desire as a relative ; the very being to 
enchant them. 

Squire. — I am extremely glad to hear you say so. 

Enter Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Carter ! pray be seated. I sent for you both, gentle- 
men, as the declared lovers of my ward, Miss Denton, in 
order to make to you an important communication. 

Mr. Carter. — I am afraid that I can guess its import. 

Colonel. — Speak, Squire Penniman — pray speak ! 

Squire. — Have you heard of the failure of the great firm 
of Brown and Co. ? 

Colonel. — Yes. But what has that to do with Ada 
Denton? — To the point, my good sir; to the point. 

Squire. — Well, then, to come at once to the point, — did 
you never hear that, though not an ostensible partner, Mr. 
Denton's large property was lodged in the firm? 

Mr. Carter. — I had heard such a report. 



46 TESTING THE .SUITORS. 

Colonel. — Mr. Denton's property in Brown's house ! the 
house of a notorious speculator ! What incredible impru- 
dence ! — all? 

Squire. — The whole. 

Colonel. — What miraculous lolly ! (He starts to his 
feet.) Then Miss Denton is a beggar. 

Squire. — Whilst I live, Ada Denton can never want a 
home. But she is now a portionless orphan; and she 
desired that you, gentlemen, might be apprised of the 
change of her fortunes, with all convenient speed, and 
assured that no advantage would be taken of proposals 
made under circumstances so different. 

Mr. Carter (with sincerity). — Oh, how needless an as- 
surance ! 

Colonel (with hesitation). — Miss Denton displays a 
judicious consideration. 

Squire (with a little sarcasm). — I am, however, happy to 
find, Colonel Harrington, that your affection is so entirely 
centered on the lovely young woman apart from her riches, 
that you will feel nothing but pleasure in an opportunity of 
proving the disinterestedness of your love. 

Colonel (hesitatingly). — Why, it must be confessed, 
Squire Penniman 

Squire. — Your paternal estate is so splendid as to render 
you quite independent of fortune in a wife. 

Colonel (he walks back and forth). — Why, y-e-s. But 
really, my estate ; what with the times and one drawback 
and another. Nobody knows what I pay in annuities to 
my father's old servants. In fact, Squire Penniman, I am 
not a rich man ; not by any means a rich man. 

Squire. — Then your great expectations from your mother, 
Lady Sarah, and your aunt, Lady Lucy. 

Colonel. — Yes. But, my dear sir, you have no notion 



TESTING THE SUITORS. 47 

of the aversion which Lady Lucy entertains for unequal 
matches — matches where all the money is on one side. 
They never turn out well, she says ; and Lady Lucy is a 
sensible woman — a very sensible woman. As far as my 
observation goes, I must say that I think her right. 

Squire. — In short, then, Colonel Harrington, you no 
longer wish to marry my ward? 

Colonel. — Why really, my good sir, it is with great 
regret that I relinquish my pretensions ; and if I thought 
that the lady's affections were engaged — but I am not vain 
enough to imagine that, with a rival of so much merit 

Mr. Carter {aside). — Contemptible coxcomb ! 

Colonel. — Pray, assure Miss Denton of my earnest 
wishes for her happiness, and of the sincere interest I shall 
always feel in her welfare. I have the honor to wish you a 
good morning. (Going.) 

Squire. — A moment, sir, if you please. What say you, 
Mr. Carter? Have these tidings wrought an equal change 
in your feelings? 

Mr. Carter. — They have indeed wrought a change, sir, 
and a most pleasant change ; since they have given hope 
such as I never dared to feel before. God forgive me for 
being so glad of what has grieved her ! Tell Ada Denton 
that for her sake, I wish that I were richer but that never 
shall I wish she was rich for mine. Tell her that if a fortune 
adequate to the comforts, though not to the splendors of 
life, a pleasant country-house, a welcoming family, and an 
adoring husband, can make her happy, I lay them at her 
feet. Tell her 

Squire. — My dear fellow, you had far better tell her 
yourself. I have no doubt but she will accept your disin- 
terested offers, and I shall heartily advise her to do so ; but 
you must make up your mind to a little disappointment. 



48 TESTING THE SUITORS. 

Mr. Carter (puzzled) . — How ! what ! How can I be 
disappointed, so that Miss Denton will be mine? 

Squire. — Disappointment is not quite the word. But 
you will have to encounter a little derangement of your 
generous schemes. When you take my pretty ward, you 
must e'en take the burden of her riches along with her. 

Colonel (astonished}. — She is not ruined, then? 

Squire. — No, sir ; Mr. Denton did at one time place a 
considerable sum in the firm of Messrs. Brown ; but finding 
the senior partner to be, as you observed, Colonel, a 
notorious speculator, he prudently withdrew it. 

Colonel {indignantly). — And this was a mere stratagem ? 

Squire. — Really, sir, I was willing to prove the sincerity 
of your professions before confiding to you such a treasure 
as Ada Denton, and I think that the result has fully justified 
the experiment. But for your comfort, I don't think she 
would have had you, even if you had happened to behave 
better. My young friend here had made himself a lodg- 
ment in her heart, of which his present conduct proves him 
to be fully worthy. I have the honor to wish you a very 
good morning. {Colonel Harrington goes out.) — Come, 
Carter, Ada's in the music-room. {They go out.) 



THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Frederick the Great, Emperor of Prussia. 

Fritz Schmidt, a young shipcarpenter who deserted from the 
army. 

Mrs. Schmidt, mother to Fritz. 

An Imperial Oflber, in uniform. 

Situation. Scflmidt has desei'ted from the German army, 
gone to Holland to become a carpenter. Young Frede- 
rick, seeing the throne to be his in the near future, goes 
to the same place under an assumed family name and 
works with Fritz, whose character is so pleasing to the 
youth that when he becomes Emperor he seeks him out 
for the superintendency of his shipping interests. 

There should be marked contrast in the dress of 
Frederick and Fritz. 

Enter Mrs. Schmidt and Fritz. 

Fritz. — Well, mother, I mustn't be skulking about here 
in Leipzig any longer. I must leave you and go back to 
Holland, to my shipbuilding. At the risk of my life I came 
here and at the risk of my life I must go back. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — Ah ! Fritz, Fritz ! if it hadn't been for 
your turning deserter, you might have been a corporal by 
this time. 

Fritz. — Look you, mother ! I was made a soldier against 
my will, and the more I saw of a soldier's life the more I 
4 49 



50 THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 

hated it. As a poor journeyman carpenter I am at least 
free and independent ; and if you will go with me to Hol- 
land, you shall keep house for me and take care of my wages. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — I should be a drag on you, Fritz ! You 
will be wanting to get married by and by ; moreover, it 
will be hard for me to leave the old home at my time of 
life. {A knock is heard at the door.) 

Fritz. — Some one is knocking at the door. Wait, 
mother, till I have concealed myself. {Hurries about.) 
Enter Frederick in citizen's dress. 

Frederick. — What ho ! comrade ! No dodging ; Don't 
try to get out of the room. Didn't I see you through the 
window as I stood in the street? 

Fritz. — Frederick ! My old fellow-workman in the ship- 
yard at Saardam! Give me your hand, my hearty ! {They 
shake hands.) How came you to be here in Leipzig? No 
shipbuilding going on in this part of the country, surely? 

Frederick. — No ; but a plenty of it at Hamburg, under 
the Emperor. 

Fritz. — They say that the Emperor is in Leipzig at this 
present time? 

Frederick. — Yes; he passed through your street this 
morning. 

Fritz. — So I heard. But I was afraid to look out at 
him. I say, Frederick, how did you find me out? 

Frederick. — Why, happening to see the name of Mrs. 
Schmidt over the door, it occurred to me, after I returned 
to the palace 

Fritz. — To the palace? 

Frederick. — Yes ; I always call the place at which I put 
up a palace. It's a way I have. 

Fritz. — You always were a funny fellow, Frederick ! 

Frederick. — As I was saying, it occurred to me that Mrs. 



THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 5 I 

Schmidt might be the mother or aunt of my old messmate ; 
and so I put on this simple disguise, and 

Fritz. — Ha, ha, ha! Sure enough, it is a disguise for 
you, — a disguise, Frederick, you're not much used to, — the 
disguise of a gentleman. Where did you get such fine 
clothes ? 

Frederick {sternly). — How dare you, sir, interrupt me 
in my story? 

Fritz. — Eh? Don't joke in that way again, Frederick, 
if you love me. Do you know, you half frightened me out 
of my boots by the tone in which you said " How dare you, 
sir? " If you had been a corporal of marines, you couldn't 
have done it better. 

Frederick. — Well, well, you see how it was I happened 
to drop in. Ah, Fritz ! Many's the big log we've chopped 
at together, through the long summer day, in old Von 
Block's shipyard. 

Fritz. — That we have, Frederick ! Why not go back 
with me to Saardam? 

Frederick.— I can get better wages at Hamburg. 

Fritz. — If it weren't that I'm afraid of being overhauled 
for taking that long walk away from my post, when I was a 
soldier, I would go with you to Hamburg. 

Frederick. — How happened you to venture back here ? 
The laws, you know, are pretty severe against deserters. 
What if I should inform against you? 

Fritz. — You couldn't ; for, when I made you my confid- 
ant, you promised you'd never blab. Ah ! I told you my 
secret, but you didn't tell me yours, — though you confessed 
that you had one. How happened I to venture back? 
Well, you must know that this old mother of mine wanted 
badly to see me ; and then I had left behind me here a 
sweetheart. 



52 THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 

Frederick. — A sweetheart! Ah! I see, now, what 
brought you back. 

Fritz. — Don't laugh, Frederick ! She has waited for me, 
faithful creature that she is, these five years. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — Yes ; and had no lack of offers, and 
good ones, too, during that time. 

Fritz.— And the misery of it is, that I am still too poor 
to take her back with me to Holland. But next year, if 
my luck continues, I mean to return and marry her. 

Frederick. — Do you know that a fellow can make a 
pretty little sum by exposing a deserter? 

Fritz. — Don't joke on that subject, Frederick. You'll 
frighten the old woman. Frederick, old boy, I'm so glad 
to see you — (Shakes hands, but his attention is suddenly 
arrested as he looks out the window over Frederick's 
shoulders^) Hallo ! Soldiers at the door? What does this 
mean? An officer? Frederick, excuse me, but I'm par- 
ticular about the company I keep. 

Frederick. — Stay ! I give you my word it is not you 
they want. They are friends of mine. 

Fritz. — Oh, if that's the case, I'll stay. But, do you 
know one of those fellows looks wonderfully like my old 
commanding officer? 

Enter Officer. 

Officer {bowing and handing some papers). — A des- 
patch from Berlin, your Majesty, claiming your immediate 
attention. {Frederick takes it and reads it.) 

Mrs. Schmidt {to Fritz). — Majesty ! He called him 
majesty ! 

Fritz. — Majesty ! I say, Frederick, what does he mean 
by majesty? 

Officer. — Knave ! know you not that this is the Emperor? 

Fritz. — Oh ! you can't fool me ! I've known him you 



THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 53 

see before now. This is my old friend Frederick Meyer. 

Officer. — Down on your knees, blockhead, to Frederick, 
Emperor of Prussia. 

Fritz. — Blockhead ? Mr. Officer, if it's equally agreeable 
to you, keep a civil tongue in your head. 

Mrs. Schmidt (kneeling to the Emperot ) . — O your Majesty, 
your Majesty, don't slay the poor boy ! He knew no better ! 
Indeed, he knew no better ! He's only my son — the staff 
of my age. Let him be whipped ; but don't kill him — 
don't kill him ! 

Fritz {pulling her up) . — Nonsense, mother ! This is 
only one of Frederick's jokes. He keeps it up well, though. 
Ha-ha — umph. And those despatches you are reading, 
Frederick ! 

Officer. — Irreverent blockhead ! How dare you in- 
terrupt his Majesty? 

Fritz. — Twice you've called me blockhead. Don't you 
think that's being rather familiar? Frederick, have you 
any objection to my throwing your friend out of the window? 

Officer. — Ha ! Now I look closer, I remember you. 
You're a deserter. I arrest you. 

Fritz {aside) . — It's all up with me ! And there stands 
Frederick as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — I'm all in a maze. Good Mr. Officer, 
spare the poor boy ! Take all I have — but spare him ! 

Officer. — Impossible ! He must go before a cour-tmartial. 
He must be shot. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — O woe is me ! Woe is me ! That ever 
my poor boy should be shot. 

Frederick. — Officer, I have occasion for the services of 
your prisoner. The arrest is set aside. 

Officer. — Your Majesty's will is absolute. {Frederick 
and the Officer converse in dumb show.) 



54 THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 

Fritz {aside). — Majesty again! What does it all mean? 
A light breaks in upon me. Now I remember, — there were 
rumors in Holland just before I left, that the Emperor had 
been working in one of the shipyards. Can my Frederick 
be the Emperor? 

Frederick. — Well, Schmidt, you have my secret now, — 
and we are even. 

Fritz. — And you are 

Frederick. — The Emperor. 

Mrs. Schmidt {kneeling) . — O your Majesty ! Change 
his punishment to imprisonment for life. 

Frederick {aiding her to rise) . — Rise, Madam. Your 
son, Baron Schmidt, is safe. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — Baron Schmidt? 

Frederick. — I want him to superintend my shipyard at 
Hamburg. No words ! Prepare, both of you, to leave for 
the new city to-morrow. Baron Schmidt, make that sweet- 
heart of yours a Baroness this very night and bring her with 
you. No thanks. I understand it all. I have business 
claiming my care, or I would stop to see the wedding. 
{He hands Schmidt a purse.) Take and use, as you may 
need, this purse of ducats. My secretary shall call with 
further orders in the morning. Farewell. {He goes out). 

Fritz {dazed). — O Frederick, Frederick ! — I mean your 
Majesty, your Majesty! 

Mrs. Schmidt. — Down on your knees, Fritz. — I mean 
Baron Schmidt ! Down on your knees ! {Aside, as she goes 
out.) To think that Fritz should live to be a baron ! 

Fritz {with a twinkle in his eye) . — That court-martial, 
Mr. Officer, does not seem likely to come off. 

Officer. — Don't speak of it, Baron. I am your very 
humble servant, Baron. — After you, Baron. {Fritzgoes out 
followed by the officer?) 



MIKE GETS A JOB. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Goodrich, a well-dressed man of middle age. 

Michael Carnes, an Irishman in search of a job, looking a 
little dilapidated 

Situation. — Mr. Goodrich is seated at a table readi?ig or 
writing when a servant shows in the Irishman. The 
great change of topics by Mr. Goodrich is merely 
meant to i?iake Mike talk while his character is esti- 
mated. 

Mike {taking off his hat and bowing). — An' plaze yer 
honor, would ye be after giving employment to a faithful 
servant, who has been recimmended to call upon yer honor? 

Goodrich. — You appear to have walked some distance ; 
does it rain? 

Mike. — Never a drop, plaze yer honor. 

Goodrich (looking out at window). — Ah ! I see the sun 
shines now ; post nubila Phcebus. 

Mike. — The post has not yet arrived, sir. 

Goodrich. — What may I call your name? 

Mike. — My name is Michael Carnes, and I have always 
been called Mike, and you are at liberty to call me that 
same. 

Goodrich. — Well, Mike, who was your late master? 

Mike. — Mr. Jacobs, plaze yer honor ; and a nicer man 
never brathed. 

55 



56 MIKE GETS A JOB. 

Goodrich. — How long did you live with Mr. Jacobs? 

Mike. — In troth, sir, I can't tell. I passed my time so 
pleasantly in his sarvice, that I niver kept any account of 
it, at all, at all. I might have lived with him all the days 
of my life, and a great deal longer, if I had plazed to do so. 

Goodrich. — Why, then, did you leave him? 

Mike. — It was by mutual agrament. The truth was, a 
slight difference arose between us, and he said I should not 
live with him longer ; and at the same instant, you see, I 
declared I would not live with him : so we parted on good 
terms — by agrament, you see. 

Goodrich. — Was not your master a proud man? 

Mike. — Indade he was — bless his honest sowl ! He 
would not do a mane act for the univarse. 

Goodrich. — Well, Mike, how old are you now ? 

Mike. — I am just the same age of Patrick O'Leary; he 
and I were born the same wake. 

Goodrich. — And how old is he ? 

Mike. — He is just my age. He and I are just of an age, 
you see, only one of us is older than the other ; but which 
is the oldest I cannot say, neither can Patrick. 

Goodrich. — Were you born in Dublin? 

Mike. — No, sir, plaze yer honor, though I might have 
been, if I had desired ; but, as I always preferred the 
country, I was born there ; and, plaze God, if I live and do 
well, I'll be buried in the same parish I was born in. 

Goodrich. — You can write, I suppose. 

Mike. — Yes, sir ; as fast as a dog can trot. 

Goodrich. — What is the usual mode of traveling in Ire- 
land? 

Mike. — Why, sir, if you travel by water, you must take a 
boat ; and, if you travel by land, either in a chaise or on 
horseback] and thim as can't afford either of them are 



MIKE GETS A JOB. 57 

obliged to trudge it on foot, which to my mind, is decidedly 
the safest and chapest mode of moving about. 

Goodrich. — And which is the pleasantest season for 
traveling ? 

Mike. — Faith, sir, I think that season whin a man has 
most money in his pocket. 

Goodrich. — I think your roads are passably good. 

Mike. — They are all quite passable, if you only pay the 
tollman. 

Goodrich. — I understand you have many black cattle in 
Ireland. 

Mike. — Faith, we have plenty of every color. 

Goodrich. — I think you have too much rain in your 
country. 

Mike. — So every one says ; but Sir Boyle has promised 
to bring in an act of Parliament in favor of fair weather, 
yes, sir; and I am sure the poor hay-makers and turf- 
cutters will bless him for it. He is the man that first 
proposed that every quart-bottle should hold just two pints. 

Goodrich. — As you have many fine rivers, I suppose you 
have an abundance of good fish. 

Mike. — And well you may say that ; for water never wet 
better ones. Why, sor, I won't tell you a lie ; but, if you 
were at the Boyne, you could get salmon and trout for 
nothing ; and if you were at Ballyshanny, you'd get them 
for much less. 

Goodrich. — Well, Mike, you are a bright fellow. Come 
in to-morrow and I'll see what I can do for you. 

Mike. — Pace to your good sowl ! I'll be on hand, sor. 
{He bows and goes oat, and then Mr. Goodrich goes out.} 



THE STUPID LOVER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Margaret, a plainly-dressed young lady. 

Donald, a well-dressed young gentleman. 

Situation. — Constance, with whom Donald is desperately 
in love has just left the room in bad humor. Mar- 
garet is trying to tell Donald that Constance as deeply 
returns his affection, but Donald is stupid to the end. 
The references to Donald in the scene which follows, 
must not be made too pointed by Margaret, or the 
delicacy of the situation will be lost. 

Margaret sits near the front of the platform and 
has soine fancy work in her hands. Donald, 
after the first exclamation, walks to and fro behind 
her. 

There should be two chairs and a small stand on 
which is placed a vase of flowe7-s. If the platform is 
large enough other accessories j?iay be added, as a table, 
near the front, a bookcase at the rear, a mirror at the 
side. Any object, such as a book, may be used instead 
of a vase of flowers, if desired. 

Donald {to Constance). — Oh, Constance! {To Mar- 
garet.) What have I done? 

Margaret {aside). — Oh, it isn't what you've done, 
Donald, it's what you don't do. {Aloud.) Oh, it's only 

58 



THE STUPID LOVER. 59 

a little temper. You say she's an angel. Well, that's the 
temper of an angel. 

Donald. — I'm afraid it's my coming here that puts her 
out. 

Margaret. — Oh, no — it isn't. She was going out be- 
fore you came. (Pause.) To tell you the truth, Donald, 
there's something very seriously the matter with Constance. 
I'm a good deal worried about her. 

Donald. — You don't mean she's ill, Margaret? It seems 
very sud€en. It's nothing, really — really dangerous, I 
suppose ? 

Margaret. — Well, she's got it very bad, and I shouldn't 
be surprised if she never got over it. 

Donald. — Why have you never told me of this before? 
Has it been going on for long? 

Margaret. — It took her last summer — a short time after 
you first met her, in fact ; and it's been getting worse ever 
since. 

Donald (going a little towards her) . — Has nothing been 
done for it? 

Margaret. — Nothing. 

Donald. — But surely 

Margaret. — It's high time something was. Of course 
it is. Will you help me to do it? 

Donald (going to her and sitting beside her) . — You know 
I will, Margaret, and how glad I shall be of the chance. 
I'd give my right hand to save her an instant's pain. 

Margaret (looking at him) . — Offer it to her. It might 
do her good. 

Donald (rising, mistaking her meaning). — It isn't kind 
to ridicule me. It's only a figure of speech, I know, but I 
meant it. (Crosses.) 

Margaret (with a sigh) . — He is stupid ! 



60 THE STUPID LOVER. 

Donald. — Who ? I ? 

Margaret. — You ! You stupid ! Good gracious, no ! — 
what an idea ! No, I was thinking of him. 

Donald. — Him! What him? 

Margaret. — Why, the him. The him that all this 
trouble is about. The him that Constance is in love 
with. 

Donald. — In love with? 

Margaret. — Yes, in love with. We poor little weak 
women do fall in love sometimes ; we're not like you men. 
You cynical men of the world, of course, never do such 
foolish things. 

Donald. — I wish to God we never did. We're fools for 
doing so. (Pacing up and down the room.) 1 can't be- 
lieve it. (Crosses.) 

Margaret. — Can't believe what? 

Donald (turns). — That Constance can be in love. She 
is so cold. She's said herself over and over again that she 
could never love anybody. 

Margaret. — You don't expect a girl to love anybody, do 
you? Constance is very particular in that sort of thing. 
" Can't be in love." Why anything else than a man would 
have seen it for himself six months ago. 

Donald. — You're right. I've been blind. I'm begin- 
ning to see now. I'm beginning to understand. I'm be- 
ginning to understand why she's always been so hard and 
cold to me, why she's been annoyed at my coming here. I 
suppose I've been getting in the other fellow's way. Who — 
who is it? Do I know him? 

Margaret. — Um — m ! I hardly think you do. 

Donald. — What's his name ? 

Margaret. — Well, I don't know whether I ought to tell 
you without Constance's consent — you see. 



THE STUPID LOVER. 6j 

Donald {turning round sharply). — Margaret, you're 
playing with me. You're joking. 

Margaret. — I'm not joking, Donald. Constance loves 
this man with her whole heart and soul as only women do 
love. Her whole life is in his hands. It's no joking matter 
for her. 

Donald {throws himself into chair and leans his head 
on his hand) . — Nor for me, either. 

Margaret {aside). — Poor boy! It's too bad to tease 
him, really. 

Donald {after a pause, in a changed, hard voice). — What 
sort of fellow is it? Can't you tell me anything about him? 
What do you think of him, Margaret ? 

Margaret. — /like him. 

Donald. — Do you think he'll make her happy? 

Margaret. — Yes, I really think he would. He loves her 
devotedly — I'm sure of that, and he is as kind and gentle 
as he is good and true. He's my idea of a gentleman, and 
I think Constance will be very lucky to get him. 

Donald {sneeringly). — I should think so, too. It's a 
pity he hasn't one or two faults, though. Perfection is apt 
to become monotonous. {Rises and resumes his pacing.) 

Margaret. — Oh, he's got faults. There's nothing to 
grumble at on that head, I assure you. To begin with, he's 
exceedingly — well — not exactly stupid, you know, but dull 
of comprehension. And then, he's conceited and foppish, 
{glancing at his dress,) and extravagant, {looking at 
flowers.) and sarcastic, and proud, and obstinate. And 
smokes — and drinks — and tells awful stories, and swears — 
fearful ! I heard him once when he tumbled over the cat 
in the dark, and didn't know I was there. Ugh ! it makes 
my blood run cold to think of it. And the cat swore, too, 
very nearly as bad. 'Twas a regular slanging match. It 



62 THE STUPID LOVER. 

was his fault though, he'd no business to tumble over the 
poor animal — only he's so clumsy. {Donald, in walking 
about has just knocked up against the table and upset a vase 
full of flowers.) And then he's occasionally bad-tempered, 
and at times quite violent. {He is ramming the flowers 
back into the vase very roughly.) 

Donald. — I'm sorry for your notion of a gentleman. / 
should call him — perhaps I had better not say what I should 
call him. Poor Constance ! Ah, well ! I hope he will 
make her happy, that's all. What's he like? I suppose 
he's good-looking enough. These sort of men are generally 
all right on the outside. {He sits so that Margaret has a 
good profile view of his face.) 

Margaret {looking at him critically — he does not notice 
it). — Well, I should hardly call him handsome. He's 
rather good-looking, though, except, perhaps, his nose. 
{Donald now turns round with his back to Margaret.) I 
don't always like his manners. 

Donald. — Poor Constance ! Poor Constance ! And 
she's going to marry this — this gentleman ? 

Margaret. — I didn't say she was going to marry him. 

Donald {turning round). — Not going to marry him? 

Margaret. — Oh, and I didn't say she wasn't going to 
marry him, either. All I said was that she was in love 
with him. He hasn't asked her yet. 

Donald. — Hasn't asked her ! 

Margaret. — I wish you wouldn't repeat all my words,, 
Don't you know any of your own? 

Donald. — But you said he loved her. 

Margaret. — I know I did. 

Donald. — How do you know he does ? 

Margaret. — Why, he's told me so. 

Donald. — Why doesn't he tell her? 



THE STUPID LOVER. 63 

Margaret. — The very question I keep on asking myself. 

Donald (jumping up). — The man's an idiot ! 

Margaret. — That's just what I say. I get so aggravated 
with him, I can't tell you. I feel inclined sometimes to 
bang his head against the wall. I shall do it one of these 
days, I know I shall. 

Donald. — Yes ! I should like to help you. Has he any 
reason for not asking her? {He stands wrapped in thought 
and answers next two questions mechanically.) 

Margaret. — I think sometimes he hasn't any reason of 
any kind. And she hasn't got much more. They're pretty 
well matched. He is frightened to open his mouth to her, 
and she's afraid to look at him. He's worrying himself to 
death because he can't get her, and she's fretting herself 
into an early grave because he won't have her. And there 
they'll go on playing at this ridiculous game until they each 
die of a broken heart at the cruelty of the other one. Now 
what would you do with a couple like that? 

Donald. — What would I do? 

Margaret. — Yes, what would you do if you were in my 
place ? 

Donald. — If I were in your place? 

Margaret. — Donald ! {He rises and comes over.) If 
you'll look on that bottom shelf, {Pointing to a book-shelf 
at back) near the end {He follows her directions.) you'll 
find a dictionary. There's a lot of words in that, and if 

Donald. — I beg your pardon. I'm so upset, I hardly 
know what I'm saying. I don't know what you could do, 
really. 

Margaret. — If we could only start them on the right 
track, you know, they'd rush into each other's arms. 

Donald. — You must let him know, somehow that she — 
she cares for him. Can't you drop a hint? 



64 THE STUPID LOVER. 

Margaret. — Drop a hint ! Ah, you evidently don't 
know him. I must introduce you to him. I want to have 
your opinion of him? 

Donald. — If you take my advice you'll keep us apart. 
( Crosses.') 

Margaret. — Oh, I think you'll like him when you know 
him. 

Donald. — Margaret, I'm not of a violent nature. But 
for Heaven's sake, don't let me and this man meet. You've 
done me enough harm as it is, never saying a word of all 
this before — letting me live on all these months in a fool's 
paradise when you knew there was no hope for me. {Mar- 
garet rises and crosses while Donald is speaking.) My 
life's ruined. Let that suffice. Don't torture me with the 
sight of the man who has won all the happiness I've lost. 
Let him enjoy his triumph. But don't let him come near 
enough to me to be strangled. Don't — {Talking rather 
loudly.) 

Margaret. — Hush ! Not so loud ! He's here ! 

Donald {staring round) . — Here ! Where ? 

Margaret {she has come close up to him and now takes 
him by the back of the head, turns him round and thrusts 
his face close against the looking-glass).* — There! {She 
goes out.) 

Donald. — Oh, Margaret. {Donald follows her.) 

* If there is no mirror on the wall, a small hand-mirror may be 
ready for Margaret to pick it up just before she says, " There !" 



OUR DAUGHTER. 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. Duffy, a stock-broker, who has accumulated a fortune and 
moved uptown. 

Mrs. Duffy, a good sized woman, anxious to make some 
show in the world. 

Situation. — Mr. Duffy goes home at noon earlier than 
usual in order to consult his wife about their daughter \$- 
prospects. Both have been thinking and planning for 
her future welfare and each fears the other has not her 
happiness most at heart. Each rejects the other's pro- 
posals with indignation tintil the suitor's name is pro- 
nounced. They then rejoice that both had the same 
man in mind. 

Mrs. Duffy is sitting by a table, and is working at some 
embroidery, when Mr. Duffy enters with his overcoat 
on and his hat in his hand. 
Duffy {he takes off his overcoat and puts it on a chair), 

— My dear, there's rare news from the Exchange. Mining 

stock is mounting every minute. 

Mrs. Duffy {she does not turn round to greet him) . — I 

am glad to hear it, my dear. 

Duffy. — Yes, I thought you would be glad to hear of it. 

I have just sent the clerk to watch how matters go — I should 

have gone myself, but I wanted to speak of an affair of 

some importance to you 

Mrs. Duffy (with some impatience}. — Ay, ay, you have 

65 



66 OUR DAUGHTER. 

always some affair of great importance. (She looks round 
and sees his coat and hat on the chair.) Why didn't you 
leave your coat in the hall ! 

Duffy. — My dear, don't talk about that coat. I have 
another matter. — I have been thinking that it is high time 
we had fixed our daughter ; 'tis high time that Charlotte 
were married. 

Mrs. Duffy. — You think so, do you? I have thought 
so many a time these three years ; and so has she too, I 
fancy. I wanted to talk to you about the same subject. 

Duffy. — You did? Well; he, he, he! — I vow I'm 
pleased at this — Why, our inclinations do seldom jump to- 
gether. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Jump ! No, I should wonder if they did, 
and how comes it to pass now? I suppose you have been 
employing some of your brokers, as usual ; or perhaps ad- 
vertising, as you used to do ; but I expect to hear no more 
of these tricks, now that we are come up to the fashionable 
end of the town. 

Duffy. — No, no, my dear, this is no such matter. The 
gentleman I intend 

Mrs Duffy. — You intend ! 

Duffy. — Yes, I intend. 

Mrs. Duffy. — You intend. What ! do you presume to 
dispose of my child without my consent? Mind your 
money matters, Mr. Duffy : look at your bulls and your 
bears, — but leave to me the management of my child. {She 
rises and walks to and fro.) What ! Things are come to 
a fine pass indeed ! I suppose you intend to marry the 
poor innocent to one of your city cronies, your clerks, your 
supercargoes, packers or dry salters ; but I'll have none of 
them, Mr. Duffy, no, I'll have none of them. It shall never 
be said, that, after coming to this end of the town, the 



OUR DAUGHTER. 67 

great Miss Duffy was forced to trudge into the city again 
for a husband. 

Duffy {sinking back in his chair aghast) . — Why, you are 
mad, Mrs. Duffy. 

Mrs. Duffy. — No, you shall find I am not mad, Mr. 
Duffy; — that I know how to dispose of my child, Mr. 
Duffy. — What ! did my poor dear brother leave his fortune 
to me and my child, and shall she now be disposed of with- 
out consulting me? {She covers her eyes with her hand- 
kerchief, and falls into her chair.) 

Duffy (bending forward in his chair). — Why, you are 
mad, certainly ! If you will but hear me, you shall be con- 
sulted — Have I not always consulted you ? — To please you, 
was I not inclined to marry my daughter to a lord? And 
has she not been hawked about, till the peerage of three 
kingdoms turn up their noses at you and your daughter? 
Did I not treat with my Lord Spindle, with Signor Macaroni, 
and with Herr Eselmann ? And did we not agree, for the 
first time in our lives, that it would be better to find out a 
merchant for her, as the people of quality now-a-days 
marry for only a winter or so? 

Mrs. Duffy (relenting and turning toward him). — Very 
well, we did so ; and who, pray, is the proper person to 
find out a match for her? Who, but her mother, Mr. 
Duffy? — who goes into company with no other view, Mr. 
Duffy ; — who flatters herself she is no contemptible judge 
of mankind, Mr. Duffy ; — yes, Mr. Duffy, as good a judge as 
any woman on earth, Mr. Duffy. 

Duffy. — That I believe, Mrs. Duffy. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Who then but me should have the disposal 
of her? And very well I have disposed of her. I have got 
her a husband in my eye. 

Duffy. — You got her a husband? 



68 OUR DAUGHTER. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Yes, I have got her a husband. 

Duffy {rising and striding abouf). — No, no, no, Mrs. 
Duffy, that will never do. — What ! have I been toiling up- 
wards of fifty years, — up early, down late, shopkeeper and 
housekeeper, made a great fortune, which I could never 
find in my heart to enjoy — and now, when all the comfort 
I have in the world, the settlement of my child, is in agita- 
tion, shall I not speak? Shall I not have leave to approve 
of her husband? 

Mrs. Duffy. — There, there ! You are getting into your 
tantrums, I see. 

Duffy {with more and more excitement) . — What ! did I 
not leave the city, every friend in the world with whom I 
used to pass an evening? Did I not, to please you, take 
this house here? Nay, did I not make a fool of myself by 
going to learn to come in and go out of a room ? Did I 
not put on a sword, too, at your desire ? And had I not like 
to have broken my neck down stairs, by its getting between 
my legs, at that diabolical Lady what-d'ye-call-her's rout? 
And did not all the footmen and chairmen laugh at me? 

Mrs. Duffy {laughing). — And well they might, truly. 
An obstinate old fool 

Duffy. — Ay, ay, that may be ; but I'll have my own way 
— I'll give my daughter to the man I like — I'll have no 
Sir This nor Lord Tother — I'll have no fellow with his hair 
down to his shoulders, and one glass in his eye and 

Mrs. Duffy. — Why, Mr. Duffy, you are certainly mad, 
raving, distracted. — No, the man I propose 

Duffy. — And the man I propose 

Mrs. Duffy. — Is a young gentleman of fortune, discre- 
tion, parts, sobriety, and connections. 

Duffy. — And the man I propose is a gentleman of abili- 
ties, fine fortune, prudence, temperance, and every virtue. 



OUR DAUGHTER. 69 



Mrs. Duffy. — And his name is- 



Duffy. — And his name is Burton. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Burton ! (She pushes back her chair in 
amazement.) 

Duffy. — Yes, Burton, I say, and a very pretty name, too. 

Mrs. Duffy. — What ! Mr. Burton, of Utica? 

Duffy. — Yes, Mr. Burton of Utica. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Oh, my dear Mr. Duffy, you delight me ! 
Mr. Burton is the very man I meant. 

Duffy. — Is it possible ? Why, where have you met him ? 

Mrs. Duffy. — Oh, at several places : but particularly at 
Mrs. Grundy's assemblies. 

Duffy. — Indeed ! was ever anything so fortunate ? Didn't 
I tell you that our inclinations agreed ; but I wonder that 
he never told me that he was acquainted with you. 

Mrs. Duffy. — How odd that he should never tell me he 
had met with you ! But I see he is a prudent man ; he was 
determined to be liked by both of us. But where did you 
meet with him? 

Duffy. — Why, he bought some stock of me ; but I am 

so This is very satisfactory, isn' tit, Mrs. Duffy, to have 

Charlotte so well fixed. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Well, we'd better see the child. (She 
moves away.) 

Duffy. — Wait ! She can't object, can she? 

Mrs. Duffy. — Of course not. — There, Duffy, take away 
that old coat. (She points at it in scorn.) I'll find Char- 
lotte. {She goes out.) 

Duffy (as he gathers tip his coat and hat). — Well, who'd 
have thought. (He goes out.) 



HIS OWN PILLS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Sir Charles Downing, a tall, elderly, dignified man. 
Doctor Kawphin, a very lean, learned, and timid man, with 
spectacles on. 

Mrs. Stout, a very fleshy woman, hostess of the Red Horse 
Inn. 

Situation. — Sir Charles has fallen from his horse and 
thereby sustained some injuries. He is quickly carried 
into the Inn. Although in great haste to depart, the 
hostess and the doctor with an eye to business have, tip 
to the opening of this dialogue, managed to detain him 
with real and fancied ills. 

Enter the Doctor, followed by Mrs. Stout. 

Mrs. Stout. — Nay, nay, another fortnight. 

Doctor. — It can't be. The man's as well as I am — 
have some mercy ! He hath been here almost three weeks 
already. 

Mrs. Stout. — Well, then, a week. 

Doctor. — We may detain him a week. 

Enter Sir Charles, unobserved in the rear, in his dressing- 
gown, with a drawn sword. 
You talk now like a reasonable hostess, 
That sometimes has a reck'ning — with her conscience. 
Mrs. Stout. — He still believes he has an inward bruise. 

70 



HIS OWN PILLS. 71 

Doctor. — I would to Heaven he had ! Or that he'd 
slipt 
His shoulder blade, or broke a leg or two, 
(Not that I bear his person any malice) 
Or lost an arm, or even sprain'd his ankle ! 

Mrs. Stout. — Ay, broken anything except his neck. 

Doctor. — However, for a week I'll manage him, 

Though he has the constitution of a horse 

A farrier should prescribe for him. 

Sir Charles {aside). — A farrier ! 

Doctor. — To-morrow he must once again be bled ; 
Next day my new-invented patent draught : — 
Then I have some pills prepared. 
On Thursday we throw in the bark ; on Friday ? — 

Sir Charles {coming forward) . — Well, sir, on Friday? — 
what on Friday? come, 
Proceed 

Doctor. — Discovered ! 

Mrs. Stout.— Mercy, noble sir! {They fall on their 
knees.) 

Doctor. — We crave your mercy. 

Sir Charles. — On your knees? 'tis well ! 
Pray, for your time is short. 

Mrs. Stout. — Nay, do not kill us ! 

Sir Charles. — You have been tried, condemned, and 
only wait 
For execution. Which shall I begin with? 

Doctor. — The lady, by all means, sir ! 

Sir Charles. — Come, prepare. {To the Hostess.) 

Mrs. Stout. — Have pity on the weakness of my sex ! 

Sir Charles. — Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross 
flesh, 
Tell me, and in a breath, how many poisons — {He raises 



72 HIS OWN PILLS. 

his sword threateningly to the doctor, who is about to 
make off.) 
If you attempt it. (The doctor sinks into a chair. To 
Hostess.) have you cooked up for me? 

Mrs. Stout. — None, as I hope for mercy ! 

Sir Charles. — Is not thy wine a poison ? 

Mrs. Stout. — No, indeed, sir ! 
'Tis not, I own, of the first quality : 
But 

Sir Charles. — What? 

Mrs. Stout. — I always give short measure, sir. 
And ease my conscience that way? 

Sir Charles. — Ease your conscience ! 
I'll ease your conscience for you ! 

Mrs. Stout. — Mercy, sir ! 

Sir Charles. — Rise, if thou canst, and hear me. 

Mrs. Stout. — Your commands, sir? 

Sir Charles. — If in five minutes all things are prepared 
For my departure, you may yet survive. 

Mrs. Stout. — It shall be done in less. 

Sir Charles. — Away, thou lump-fish ! (She goes out.) 

Doctor (he suddenly drops abjectly to his knees and 
speaks to himself). — So, now comes my turn ! — 'tis all 
over with me ! — 
There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane in his looks ! 

Sir Charles. — And now, thou sketch and outline of a 



man 



Thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun ! 
Thou eel in a consumption, eldest born 
Of Death on Famine ! Thou anatomy 
Of a starved pilchard ! — 

Doctor. — I do confess my leanness — I am spare ! 
And therefore spare me ! 



HIS OWN PILLS. 73 

Sir Charles. — Why wouldst thou have made me 
A thoroughfare for thy whole shop to pass through? 

Doctor. — Man, you know, must live ! 

Sir Charles. — Yes : he must die, too. 

Doctor. — For my patients' sake ! 

Sir Charles. — I'll send you to the major part of them — 
The window, sir, is open ; — come, prepare 

Doctor. — Pray consider ! (He shakes visibly.} 
I may hurt some one in the street. 

Sir Charles. — Why, then, I'll rattle thee to pieces in a 
dice-box, 
Or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder ; 
For thou must sup with Pluto : — So, make ready ! 
Whilst I, with this good small sword for a lancet, 
Let thy starved spirit out — for blood thou hast none — 
And nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look 
Like a dried beetle with a pin stuck through him. 

Doctor. — Consider my poor wife ! 

Sir Charles. — Thy wife ! 

Doctor. — My wife, sir ! 

Sir Charles. — Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too ? 
No flesh upon thy bones, and take a wife? 

Doctor. — I took a wife because I wanted flesh. 
I have a wife and three angelic babes, 
Who, by those looks, are well nigh fatherless ! 

Sir Charles (turning away). — Well, well! Your wife 
and children shall plead for you. 
Come, come, the pills ! Where are the pills ? Produce 
them. 

Doctor. — Here is the box. (He brings out a large box 
of enormous pills.) 

Sir Charles. — Were it Pandora's, and each single pill 
Had ten diseases in it, you should take them. 



74 HI S OWN PILLS. 

(The doctor holds out the box to Sir Charles who refuses 
to touch it. The doctor loosens the cover while Sir Charles 
utters these two lines.) 

Doctor. — What, all? (In horror he drops the box and 

the pills roll about the floor?) 
Sir Charles. — Ay, all; and quickly, too. — Come, sir, 
begin ! 
(The doctor takes one.) That's well : — another. 
Doctor. — One's a dose ! 
Sir Charles. — Proceed, sir ! 

Doctor. — What will become of me? — (He crawls slowly 
about the floor while Sir Charles watches and makes 
him swallow all.) 
Let me go home, and set my shop to rights, 
And, like immortal Caesar, die with decency ! 

Sir Charles. — Away ! And thank thy lucky star 1 have 
not 
Betrayed thee in thy own mortar, or exposed thee 
For a large specimen of the lizard genus. 

Doctor (with a groan). Would I were one — for they 

(He puts his hand on hts stomach.) can feed on air ! 
Sir Charles (motioning away with his sword). — Home, 

sir ! And be more honest. 
Doctor. — If I am not 
I'll be more wise at least ! (He goes out.) 

Sir Charles (stands sternly watching his departure). — - 
Now to other business. (He goes out on the other side.) 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 



Adapted from " The Refugees," by A. Conan Doyle. 



CHARACTERS. 

Louis XIV., King of France. 

Louvois, Minister of War. 

Bontems, valet to the King. 

Situation. — Louis XIV. is awaiting the arrival of the Arch- 
bishop of Paris, who is to marry him to Madame de 
Maintenon. His minister of war brings in two bags 
of mail for his inspection. The dialogue is concerned 
with the reading of letters from these bags. 

The King wears a curled wig, a dark coat, black 
under-coat, scarlet silk inner vest, black velvet knee- 
breeches, red stockings, diamond-buckled, high-heeled 
shoes. On his breast are pinned various emblems, 
among them the cross of the o?'der of St. Louis. When 
he walks he carries a cane. 

Louvois and Bontems wear similar costumes though 
less pretentious. 

Louis sits by the table, his chin upon his hands, his elbows 
upon the table, with eyes staring vacantly at the wall, 
in moody, solemn silence. A tap at the door. Louis 
springs up eagerly. Bontems steps just inside the door. 
Bontems. — Your Majesty, Louvois would crave an inter- 
view. 

King {with a gesture, as he sits) . — Admit him, then. 

75 



?6 LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 

Louvois enters and Bontems retires, 

Louvois (with a low bow). — Sire, I trust that I do not 
intrude upon you. 

King. — No, no, Louvois. My thoughts were in truth be- 
ginning to be very indifferent company, and I am glad to 
be rid of them. 

Louvois. — Your Majesty's thoughts can never, I am sure, 
be anything but pleasant. But I have brought you here 
something which I trust may make them even more so. 

King.— Ah ! What is that? 

Louvois. — When so many of our young nobles went into 
Germany and Hungary, you were pleased in your wisdom 
to say that you would like well to see what reports they sent 
home to their friends ; also what news was sent out from 
the court to them. 

King. — Yes. 

Louvois. — I have them here — all that the courier has 
brought in, and all that are gathered to go out, each in its 
own bag. The wax has been softened in spirit, the fasten- 
ings have been steamed, and they are now open. (He 
holds an open bag to the King.) 

King (taking out a handful of letters and looking at the 
addresses) . — I should indeed like to read the hearts of those 
people. Thus only can I tell the true thoughts of those 
who bow and simper before my face. I suppose (A 
glance of suspicion suddenly flashes from his eyes.) that you 
have not yourself looked into these ? 

Louvois. — Oh, sire, I had rather die ! 

King. — You swear it? 

Louvois. — As I hope for salvation ! 

King (selecting one) . — Hum ! There is one among these 
which I see is from your own son. 

Louvois (changing color, and stammering) . — Your 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 77 

Majesty will find that he is as loyal out of your presence as 
in it, else he is no son of mine. 

King {opening the letter). — Then we shall begin with his. 
Ha ! it is but ten lines long. " Dearest Achille, how I 
long for you to come back ! The court is as dull as a 
cloister, now that you are gone. My ridiculous father still 
struts about like a turkey-cock, as if all his medals and 
crosses could cover the fact that he is but a head lackey, 
with no more real power than I have. He wheedles a good 
deal out of the king, but what he does with it I cannot 
imagine, for little comes my way. I still owe those ten 
thousand livres to the man in the Rue Orfevre. Unless I 
have some luck at lansquenet, I shall have to come out 
soon and join you." Hum S I did you an injustice, Lou- 
vois. I see that you have not looked over these letters. 

Louvois (with intense agony in his face and protruding 
eyes) . — The viper ! Oh, the foul snake in the grass ! I 
will make him curse the day he was born. 

King. — Tut, tut, Louvois. You are a man who has seen 
much of life, and you should be a philosopher. Hot-headed 
youth says ever more than it means. Think no more of 
the matter. — But what have we here ? A letter from my 
dearest girl to her husband, the Prince of Conti. I would 
pick her writing out of a thousand. Ah, dear soul, she 
little thought that my eyes would see her artless prattle ! 
Why should I read it, since I already know every thought 
of her innocent heart? (He tin/olds the pink sheet with a 
smile, which fades as he glances down the page. He springs 
to his feet with a snarl of anger.) Minx! Impertinent, 
heartless minx ! Louvois, you know what I have done for 
the princess. You know that she has been the apple of my 
eye. What have I ever grudged her? What have I evei 
denied her? 



78 LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 

Louvois. — You have been goodness itself, sire. 

King. — Hear what she says of me : " Old Father Grumpy 
is much as usual, save that he gives a little at the knees. 
You remember how we used to laugh at his airs and graces ! 
Well, he has given up all that, and though he still struts 
about on great high heels, like a Landes peasant on his 
stilts, he has no brightness at all in his clothes. Of course 
all the court follow his example, so you can imagine what 
a nightmare place this is. Then this woman still keeps in 
favor, and her frocks are as dismal as Grumpy's coats ; so 
when you come back we shall go into the country together, 
and you shall dress in red velvet, and I shall wear blue silk, 
and we shall have a little colored court of our own in spite 
of my majestic papa." {The king drops the letter, and 
sinks his face in his hands.) You hear how she speaks of 
me, Louvois. 

Louvois. — It is infamous, sire ; infamous ! 

King. — She calls me names — me, Louvois ! 

Louvois. — Atrocious, sire. 

King. — And my knees ! One would think that I was an 
old man ! 

Louvois. — Scandalous ! But, sire, I would beg to say 
that it is a case in which your Majesty's philosophy may well 
soften your anger. Youth is ever hot-headed, and says 
more than it means. Think no more of this matter. 

King. — You speak like a fool, Louvois. The child that 
I have loved turns upon me, and you ask me to think no 
more of it. Ah, a king can trust least of all those who 
have his own blood in their veins. — What writing is this ? 
{He picks up another tetter.) It is the good Cardinal de 
Bouillon. This sainted man loves me. I will read you his 
letter, Louvois, to show you that there is still such a thing 
as loyalty and gratitude in France. {Be reads.) "My 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 79 

dear Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon." Ah, it is to him he 
writes. " I promised when you left that I would let you 
know, from time to time how things were going at court, as 
you consulted me about bringing your daughter up from 
Anjou, in the hope that she might catch the king's fancy." 
What ! what ! Louvois ! What villainy is this ? " The 
Sultan goes from bad to worse. The Fontanges was at 
least the prettiest woman in France ; the Montespan was a 
fine woman in her day ; but fancy his picking up now with 
a widow who is older than himself, a woman, too, who does 
not even try to make herself attractive, but kneels at her 
prie-dieu or works at her tapestry from morning to night. 
They say that December and May make a bad match, but 
my own opinion is that two Novembers make an even 
worse one." Louvois ! Louvois ! I can read no more. 
Have you a lettre de cachet? 

Louvois. — There is one here, sire. (He indicates a 
drawer in the table.) 

King. — For the Bastille? 

Louvois. — No ; for Vincennes. 

King. — That will do very well. Fill it up, Louvois ! 
Put this villain's name in it ! Let him be arrested to-night, 
and taken there in his own caleche. The shameless, un- 
grateful, foul-mouthed villain ! — Why did you bring me 
these letters, Louvois? Oh, why did you yield to my foolish 
whim? Mon dieu, is there no truth, or honor, or loyalty 
in the world ? (He stamps with his feet and shakes his 
hands in the air in frenzy?) 

Louvois. — Shall f, then, put back the others? 

King. — Put them back, but keep the bag. 

Louvois. — Both bags? 

King. — Ah ! I had forgot the other one. (Louvois 
leaves the letters he is putting into the first bag and going 



80 LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 

round behind the king empties some of the letters out of the 
second bag on the other side of the table.) Perhaps I have 
at least some honest subjects at a distance. Let us take 
one hap-hazard. Who is this from? (He opens it.) Ah ! 
it is from the Due de la Rochefoucauld. He has ever 
seemed to be a modest and dutiful young man. What has 
he to say? The Danube — Belgrade — the Grand Vizier — 
Ah ! (He gives a cry as if he had been stabbed.) 

Louvois {stepping forward in alarm). — What, then, sire? 

King. — Take them away, Louvois ! Take them away ! 
I would that I had never seen them ! I will look at them 
no more. He gibes even at my courage, I who was in the 
trenches when he was in his cradle ! " This war would not 
suit the king," he says, "for there are battles, and none of 
the nice little safe sieges which are so dear to him." Par- 
dieu, he shall pay to me with his head for that jest ! Ay, 
Louvois, it will be a dear gibe to him. But take them away. 
I have seen as much as I can bear. (The minister thi'usts 
the letters back into the bag and puts it one side. Then he 
crosses and begins to return the other letiei-s to the first bag.) 

Louvois (starting as he picks up a letter whose hand- 
writing he recognizes) . — Ha ! it was hardly necessary to 
open this one. 

King. — Which, Louvois? Whose is it? (Louvois hands 
the letter forward and the king starts as his eyes fall on it) 
Madame's writing ! 

Louvois. — Yes, it is to her nephew in Germany. (The 
king takes it in his hands, then suddenly throws it dozvn, 
but his hand steals out to it. He is terribly agitated.) 

King (fingering nervously the letter and finally tossing it 
to his minister) . — Read it to me. 

Louvois (with a malicious light in his eyes, flattening out 
the letter and reading) . — " My dear nephew, what you ask 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 8l 

me in your last is absolutely impossible. I have never 
abused the king's favor so far as to ask for any profit for 
myself, and I should be equally sorry to solicit any advance 
for my relatives. No one would rejoice more than I to see 
you rise to be a major in your regiment, but your valor and 
your loyalty must be the cause, and you must not hope to 
do it through any word of mine. To serve such a man as 
the king is its own reward, and I am sure that whether you 
remain a cornet or rise to some higher rank, you will be 
equally zealous in his cause. He is surrounded, unhappily, 
by many base parasites. Some of these are mere fools, like 
Lauzun ; others are knaves, like the late Fouquet ; and 
some seem to be both fools and knaves, like Louvois, the 
Minister of War." (Louvois chokes with rage and cannot 
continue, but sits gurgling and drumming with his fingers on 
the table.) 

King (smiling) . — Go on, Louvois, go on. 

Louvois. — "These are the clouds which surround the 
sun, my dear nephew ; but the sun is, believe me, shining 
brightly behind them. For years I have known that noble 
nature as few others can know it, and I can tell you that 
his virtues are his own, but that if ever his glory is for an 
instant dimmed over, it is because his kindness of heart has 
allowed him to be swayed by those who are about him. 
We hope soon to see you back at Versailles, staggering 
under the weight of your laurels. Meanwhile accept my 
love and every wish for your speedy promotion, although it 
cannot be obtained in the way which you suggest." 

King (with love in his eyes) . — Ah, how could I for an 
instant doubt her ! And yet I had been so shaken by the 
others. Francoise is as true as steel. Was it not a beau- 
tiful letter, Louvois? 

Louvois (dubiously). — Madame is a very clever woman. 
6 



82 LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 

King. — And such a reader of hearts ! Has she not seen 
my character aright? 

Louvois. — At least she has not read mine, sire. 
A rap at the door and Bontems enters. 

Bontems. — The Archbishop has arrived, sire. 

King. — Very well, Bontems. Ask Madame to be so good 
as to step this way. And order the witnesses to assemble 
in the anteroom. {Bontems hurries away and the King 
turns to Louvois.) I wish you to be one of the witnesses, 
Louvois. 

Louvois. — To what, sire? 

King. — To my marriage. 

Louvois (starting). — What, sire, already? 

King. — Now, Louvois ; within five minutes. 

Louvois {extremely disconcerted) . — Very good, sire. 

King. — Put these letters away, Louvois. The last one 
has made up for all the rest. But these rascals shall smart 
for it, all the same. By the way, there is that young 
nephew to whom madame wrote. Gerard d'Aubigny is his 
name, is it not? 

Louvois. — Yes, sire. 

King. — Make him out a colonel's commission, and give 
him the next vacancy, Louvois. 

Louvois. — A colonel, sire ! Why, he is not yet twenty. 

King. — Ay, Louvois. Pray, am I the chief of the army, 
or are you? Take care, Louvois. I have warned you once 
before. I tell you, man, that if I choose to promote one 
of my jack-boots to be the head of a brigade, you shall not 
hesitate to make out the papers. Now go into the ante- 
room, (He indicates a room on one side of the platform.) 
and wait with the other witnesses until you are wanted. 
(He goes out on the other side, Louvois takes the bags of 
letters off to the anteroom.') 



THE CHALLENGE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Bob Acres, a perfect coward, from the counhy. 

Sir Lucius 0' Trigger, an Irish gentle?nan with a delicate 
sense of honor. 

Captain Absolute, a friend of Acres, in Bath under the 
name of Ensign Beverley. 

David, an old servant to Acres. 

Another servant. 

Situation. — Sir Lucius plays on the feelings of Bob Acres 
until a challenge is written to Ensign Beverley. Un- 
wittingly Acres gets Captain Absolute to deliver this 
note. The most ludicrous scene is that in the King's 
Mead fields, whither Sir Lucius has at length dragged 
the unwilling Acres. 

The strength of this dialogue lies in showing the 
sham courage, the indo?nitable cowardice of Acres, and 
the cool carelessness of Sir Lucius. 

Sir Lucius speaks with an Irish brogue, and David 
has a broad English accent. Co?isiderable ingenuity 
may be displayed in arranging appropriate costumes. 

Scene I. 

Lodgings of Bob Acres. A table with writing material 
stands at one side. Enter Acres with a dancing step. 
Acres. — Sink, slide — Confound the first inventors of 
cotillions, say I 

83 



84 THE CHALLENGE. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant.— Here is Sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on 
you, sir. 

Acres. — Show him in. (Servant goes out.) 
Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

Sir Lucius. — Mr. Acres, I am delighted to see you. 

Acres. — My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. 

Sir Lucius. — Pray, my friend, what has brought you so 
suddenly to Bath? 

Acres. — 'Faith, I have followed Cupid's jack-a-lantern, 
and find myself in a quagmire at last ! — In short, I have 
been very ill-used, Sir Lucius. I don't choose to mention 
names, but look on me as a very ill-used gentleman. 

Sir Lucius. — Pray, what is the case ? — I ask no names. 

Acres. — Mark me, Sir Lucius; I fall as deep as need 
be in love with a young lady — her friends take my part — I 
follow her to Bath — send word of my arrival ; and receive 
answer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. This 
Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used. 

Sir Lucius. — Very ill, upon my conscience ! — Pray, can 
you divine the cause of it ? 

Acres. — Why, there's the matter : she has another lover, 
one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. — Odds, slanders 
and lies ! he must be at the bottom of it. 

Sir Lucrus. — A rival in the case, is there? — and you 
think he has supplanted you unfairly? 

Acres. — Unfairly ! to be sure he has. He never could 
have done it fairly. 

Sir Luckjs. — Then sure you know what is to be done. 

Acres. — Not I, upon my soul ! 

Sir Lucius. — We wear no swords here, but you under- 
stand me? 

Acres. — What ! fight him? 



THE CHALLENGE. 85 

Sir Lucius. — Ay, to be sure : what can I mean else ? 

Acres. — But he has given me no provocation. 

Sir Lucrjs. — Now, I think he has given you the greatest 
provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more 
heinous offence against another, than to fall in love with 
the same woman? Oh, by my soul, it is the most unpar- 
donable breach of friendship. 

Acres. — Breach of friendship ! Ay, ay ; but I have no 
acquaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life. 

Sir Lucius. — That's no argument at all — he has the less 
right, then, to take such a liberty. 

Acres. — 'Gad, that's true — I grow full of anger, Sir Lu- 
cius ! — I fire apace ; odds hilts and blades ! I find a man 
may have a deal of valor in him, and not know it. — But 
couldn't I contrive to have a little right on my side? 

Sir Lucius. — What the devil signifies right when your 
honor is concerned? Do you think Achilles, or my little 
Alexander the Great, ever inquired where the right lay? 
No, by my soul; they drew their broad sword, and left the 
lazy sons of peace to settle the justice of it. 

Acres. — Your words are a grenadier's march to my 
heart ! I believe courage must be catching. — I certainly do 
feel a kind of valor arising, as it were — a kind of courage, 
as I may say. — Odds flints, pans, and triggers ! I'll challenge 
him directly. 

Sir Lucius. — Ah, my little friend ! If we had Blunder- 
buss Hall here — I could show you a range of ancestry, 
in the O'Trigger line, every one of whom had killed his 
man ! — For though the mansion-house and dirty acres have 
slipped through my fingers, I thank heaven, our honor and 
the family pictures are as fresh as ever. 

Acres. — Oh, Sir Lucius, I have had ancestors too ! — every 
man of them colonel or captain in the militia ! — odds balls 



86 THE CHALLENGE. 

and barrels ! say no more — I'm braced for it. The thunder 
of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in 
my breast ! — Zounds ! as the man in the play says, ( I 
could do such deeds' 

Sir Lucius. — Come, come, there must be no passion at 
all in the case — these things should always be done civilly. 

Acres. — I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius — I must be in 
a rage — Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love 
me. — Come, here's pen and paper. (Sits.) I would the 
ink were red ! — Indite, I say, indite ! — How shall I begin? 
Odds bullets and blades ! I'll write a good bold hand how- 
ever. 

Sir Lucius. — Pray, compose yourself. (Sits down.) 

Acres. — Come — now, shall I begin with an oath? Do, 
Sir Lucius, let me begin with a damme. 

Sir Lucius. — Pho! pho ! do the thing decently, and like 
a Christian. Begin now — "Sir, " 

Acres. — That's too civil, by half. 

Sir Lucius. — " To prevent the confusion that might 
arise " 

Acres. — Well 



Sir Lucius. — " From our both addressing the same 
lady " 

Acres. — Ay — "both undressing the same lady" — there's 
the reason — " same lady " — Well 

Sir Lucius. — " I shall expect the honor of your com- 
pany " 

Acres. — Zounds ! I'm not asking him to dinner ! 

Sir Lucius. — Pray, be easy. 

Acres. — Well, then, " honor of your company " — Does 
company begin with a C or a K? 

Sir Lucius. — " To settle our pretensions " 

Acres — Well. 



THE CHALLENGE. 87 

Sir Lucius. — Let me see — ay, King's Mead fields will do 
— " in King's Mead fields." 

Acres. — So, that's done — Well, I'll fold it up presently, 
my own crest, a hand and dagger, shall be the seal. 

Sir Lucius. — You see, now, this little explanation will put 
a stop at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that 
might arise between you. 

Acres. — Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding. 

Sir Lucius. — Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time. 
Take my advice, and you'll decide it this evening, if you 
can; then, let the worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind 
to-morrow. 

Acres. — Very true. 

Sir Lucius. — So I shall see nothing more of you, unless 
it be by letter, till the evening. {He goes out.') 

Acres (with a shake of his head). — By my valor, I should 
like to see him fight. Odds life, I should like to see him 
kill a man, if it was only to get a little lesson ! (He goes 
out.) 

Scene II 
The same room. Enter Acres, disconsolately, pursued by 
David. Acres sits by the table. 

David. — Then, by the mass, sir, I would do no such 
thing ! Ne'er a Sir Lucius O'Trigger in the kingdom should 
make me fight, when I wasn't so minded. Oons ! what 
will the old lady say, when she hears o't? 

Acres. — But my honor, David, my honor ! I must be 
very careful of my honor. 

David. — Ay, by the mass, and I would be very careful of 
it, and I think in return, my honor could not do less than 
to be very careful of me. 

Acres. — Odds blades! David, no gentleman will evei 
risk the loss of his honor. 



88 THE CHALLENGE. 

David. — I say, then, it would be but civil in honor never 
to risk the loss of a gentleman. Look ye, master, this 
honor seems to me to be a marvelous false friend. Put the 
case : I was the gentleman, (which, thank heaven, no one 
can say of me ;) well — my honor makes me quarrel with 
another gentleman of my acquaintance. So, we fight. 
(Pleasant enough that.) Boh ! I kill him — (the more's 
my luck.) Now, pray, who gets the profit of it? Why, 
my honor. But put the case, that he kills me ! By the 
mass ! I go to the worms, and my honor whips over to my 
enemy. 

Acres. — No, David ; in that case, odds crowns and 
laurels ! your honor follows you to the grave. 

David. — Now, that's just the place where I could make 
a shift to do without it. 

Acres. — Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! It doesn't 
become my valor to listen to you. What, shall I disgrace 
my ancestors? Think of that, David — think what it would 
be to disgrace my ancestors ! 

David. — Under favor, the surest way of not disgracing 
them, is to keep as long as you can out of their company. 
Look ye, now, master ; to go to them in such haste — with 
an ounce of lead in your brains — I should think it might as 
well be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of 
folks ; but they are the last people I should choose to have 
a visiting acquaintance with. 

Acres. — But, David, now, you don't think there is such 
very — very — great danger, hey? Odds life ! people often 
fight without any mischief done. 

David. — By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one against you ! 
Oons ! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant, 
with his villainous double-barreled swords and cut-and- 
thrust pistols ! Lord bless us ! it makes me tremble to 



THE CHALLENGE. 89 

think on't — those be such desperate, bloody-minded 
weapons ! Well, I never could abide them ! from a child 
I never could fancy them. I suppose there ain't been so 
merciless a beast in the world as your loaded pistol ! 

Acres. — Zounds ! I won't be afraid ! Odds fire and 
fury ! you shan't make me afraid. Here is the challenge, 
and I have sent for my dear friend, Jack Absolute, to carry 
it for me. 

David. — Ay, in the name of mischief, let him be the mes- 
senger. For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to it, for the 
best horse in your stable. By the mass, it don't look like 
another letter ! It is, as I may say, a designing and mali- 
cious-looking letter, and I warrant smells of gunpowder, 
like a soldier's pouch. Oons ! I wouldn't swear it mayn't 
go off. 

Acres. — Out, you poltroon ! — you haven't the valor of a 
grasshopper. 

David. — Well, I say no more : 'twill be sad news, to be 
sure, at Clod Hall, but I ha' done. How Phyllis will howl 
when she hears of it ! Ay, poor dog, she little thinks what 
shooting her master's going after ! And I warrant old Crop, 
who has carried your honor, field and road, these ten years, 
will curse the hour he was born. ( IVJiimpering!) 

Acres. — It won't do, David — I am determined to fight, 
so get along, you coward, while I'm in the mind. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Captain Absolute, sir. 
Acres. — Oh, show him up. (Servant goes out.) 
David. — Well, heaven send we be all alive this time to 
morrow. 

Acres. — What's that? Don't provoke me, David ! 
David. — Good-by, master. {Sobbing.) 



90 THE CHALLENGE. 

Acres. — Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, croaking 
raven ! {David goes out.) 

Enter Captain Absolute. 

Captain Absolute. — What's the matter, Bob ? 

Acres. — A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ! — If I hadn't 
the valor of St. George, and the dragon to boot 

Captain Absolute. — But what did you want with me, 
Bob? 

Acres. — Oh ! — there — {Gives him the challenge.) 

Captain Absolute {reads). — " To Ensign Beverley." — 
{Aside). So — what's going on now? — {Aloud.) Well, 
what's this? 

Acres. — A challenge. 

Captain Absolute. — Indeed!— Why, you won't fight 
him, will you, Bob? 

Acres. — Egad, but I will, Jack. — Sir Lucius has wrought 
me to it. He has left me full of rage, and I'll fight this 
evening that so much good passion mayn't be wasted. 

Captain Absolute. — But what have I to do with this? 

Acres. — Why, as I think you know something of this 
fellow, I want you to find him out for me, and give him 
this mortal defiance. 

Captain Absolute. — Well, give it me, and trust me he 
gets it. 

Acres. — Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack ; but 
it is giving you a great deal of trouble. 

Captain Absolute. — Not in the least — I beg you won't 
mention it. No trouble in the world, I assure you. 

Acres. — You are very kind. — What it is to have a friend ! 
— you couldn't be my second — could you, Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — Why, no, Bob — not in this affair — it 
would not be quite so proper. 



THE CHALLENGE. 



91 



Acres. — Well, then, I must get my friend, Sir Lucius. I 
shall have your good wishes, however, Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — Whenever he meets you, believe me. 
Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring for 
the captain. 

Captain Absolute.— I'll come down instantly. {Ser- 
vant goes out.) Well, my little hero, success attend you. 
( Going.) 

Acres. — Stay, stay, Jack. — If Beverley should ask you 
what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am 
a devil of a fellow — will you, Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — To be sure, I shall. I'll say you 
are a determined dog — hey, Bob? 

Acres. — Ay, do, do — and if that frightens him, egad, 
perhaps he mayn't come. So tell him I generally kill a 
man a week ; will you, Jack ? 

Captain Absolute. — I will ; I will ; I'll say you are called, 
in the country, " Fighting Bob." 

Acres. — Right, right — 'tis all to prevent mischief; for I 
don't want to take his life, if I clear my honor. 

Captain Absolute. — No ! — that's very kind of you. 

Acres. — Why, you don't wish me to kill him, do you, 
Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — No, upon my soul, I do not. But 
a devil of a fellow, hey? (Going.) 

Acres. — True, true. — But stay, — stay, Jack — you may 
add that you never saw me in such a rage before — a most 
devouring rage. 

Captain Absolute. — I will, I will. 

Acres. — Remember, Jack — a determined dog ! 

Captain Absolute. — Ay, ay, " Fighting Bob." (He goes 
out. 



92 THE CHALLENGE. 

Acres {shaking his head and gritting his teeth). — Oh, 
yes ! a determined dog ! {He goes out on other side.) 

Scene III. 

King's Mead Fields. Enter Sir Lucius and Acres, with 
pistols. 

Acres. — By my valor, then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a 
good distance. Odds levels and aims ! I say it is a good 
distance. 

Sir Lucius. — It is for muskets or small field-pieces ; upon 
my conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave these things to 
me. Stay, now, I'll show you. {Measures paces alo?7g the 
stage.) There, now, that is a very pretty distance — a pretty 
gentleman's distance. 

Acres. — Zounds ! we might as well fight in a sentry-box ! 
I tell you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off the cooler I shall 
take my aim. 

Sir Lucius. — Faith, then, I suppose you would aim at 
him best of all if he was out of sight ! 

Acres. — No, Sir Lucius, but I should think forty, or 
eight and thirty yards 

Sir Lucius. — Pho ! pho ! nonsense ! three or four feet 
between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile. 

Acres. — Odds bullets, no ! by my valor, there is no 
merit in killing him so near ! Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let 
me bring him down at a long shot ; a long shot, Sir Lucius, 
if you love me. 

Sir Lucius. — Well, the gentleman's friend and I must 
settle that. But tell me, now, Mr. Acres, in case of an 
accident, is there any little will or commission I could 
execute for you? 

Acres. — I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius, but I 
don't understand 



THE CHALLENGE. 93 

Sir Lucius. — Why, you may think there's no being shot 
at without a little risk — and, if an unlucky bullet should 
carry a quietus with it — I say, it will be no time then to be 
bothering you about family matters. 

Acres. — A quietus ! 

Sir Lucius. — For instance, now, if that should be the 
case — would you choose to be pickled, and sent home ? — or 
would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey? — 
I'm told there is very snug lying in the Abbey. 

Acres. — Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey ! — Odds 
tremors ! Sir Lucius, don't talk so ! 

Sir Lucius. — I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were en- 
gaged in an affair of this kind before. 

Acres. — No, Sir Lucius, never before. 

Sir Lucius. — Ah, that's a pity — there's nothing like being 
used to a thing. Pray, now, how would you receive the 
gentleman's shot? 

Acres. — Odds files ! I've practised that — there, Sir 
Lucius, there ! {He puts himself into a very awkward atti- 
tude.) A side-front, eh? — Odd, I'll make myself small 
enough — I'll stand edgeways. 

Sir Lucius. — Now, you're quite out — for if you stand so 
when I take my aim — (He levels his pistol at him.) 

Acres. — Zounds, Sir Lucius ! are you sure it is not 
cocked ? 

Sir Lucius. — Never fear. 

Acres (shivering) . — But — but — you don't know — it may 
go off of its own head ! 

Sir Lucius (speaks in a very easy, careless tone). — ■ 
Pho ! be easy. Well, now, if I hit you in the body, my 
bullet has a double chance ; for if it misses a vital part on 
your right side, 'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on 
the left. 



94 THE CHALLENGE. 

Acres. — A vital part ! 

Sir Lucius {crosses to him). — But there — fix yourself 
so — {He places him.) Let him see the broadside of your 
full front — there — now, a ball or two may pass clean through 
your body, and never do you any harm at all. 

Acres {shrinking away) . — Clean through me ! A ball or 
two clean through me ! 

Sir Lucius. — Ay, may they — and it is much the genteel- 
est attitude into the bargain. 

Acres. — Look ye, Sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve be shot 
in an awkward posture as a genteel one — so, by my valor ! 
I will stand edgeways. 

Sir Lucius {looking at his watch). — Sure they don't mean 
to disappoint us — ah ! no, faith — I think I see them coming. 

Acres. — Hey ! — what ! — coming? 

Sir Lucius. — Ay, who are those yonder, getting over the 
stile? 

Acres. — There are two of them, indeed !■ — well, let them 
come — hey, Sir Lucius ! — we-we-we-we — won't run. 

Sir Lucius. — Run ! 

Acres. — No, I say — we won't run, by my valor ! 

Sir Lucius. — What the devil's the matter with you ? 

Acres. — Nothing, nothing, my dear friend — my dear Sir 
Lucius — but I — I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as 
I did. 

Sir Lucius. — Oh, fie ! consider your honor. 

Acres. — Ay, true, my honor — do, Sir Lucius, edge in a 
word or two, every now and then, about my honor. 

Sir Lucius. — Well, here they're coming. {Looking.) 

Acres. — Sir Lucius, if I wasn't with you, I should almost 
think I was afraid — if my valor should leave me ! valor will 
come and go. 

Sir Lucius. — Then, pray, keep it fast while you have it. 



THE CHALLENGE. 95 

Acres. — Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes, my valor 
is certainly going ! it is sneaking off ! — I feel it oozing out, 
as it were, at the palms of my hands ! 

Sir Lucius. — Your honor — your honor ! — Here they are. 

Acres. — Oh, that I was safe at Clod Hall ! or could be 
shot before I was aware ! 

Enter Faulkland and Captain Absolute. 

Sir Lucius. — Gentlemen, your most obedient — hah ! — 
what, Captain Absolute ! So, I suppose, sir, you are come 
here, just like myself — to do a kind office, first for your 
friend — then to proceed to business on your own account? 

Acres. — What, Jack ! — my dear Jack ! — my dear friend ! 

Captain Absolute. — Harkye, Bob, Beverley's at hand. 

Sir Lucius. — Well, Mr. Acres — I don't blame you salut- 
ing the gentleman civilly. So, Mr. Beverley (To Faulk- 
land,} if you choose your weapons, the captain and I will 
measure the ground. 

Faulkland. — My weapons, sir ! 

Acres. — Odds life ! Sir Lucius, I'm not going to fight 
Mr. Faulkland ; these are my particular friends ! 

Sir Lucius. — What, sir, did not you come here to fight 
Mr. Acres? 

Faulkland. — Not I, upon my word, sir ! 

Sir Lucius. — Well, now, that's mighty provoking ! But 
I hope, Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of us come on 
purpose for the game — you won't be so cantankerous as to 
spoil the party, by sitting out. 

Captain Absolute. — Oh, pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige 
Sir Lucius. 

Faulkland. — Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the 
matter 

Acres. — No, no, Mr. Faulkland — I'll bear my disappoint- 
ment like a Christian. — Lookye, Sir Lucius, there's no 



96 THE CHALLENGE. 

occasion at all for me to fight ; and if it is the same to you, 
I'd as lieve let it alone. 

Sir Lucius. — Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not be trifled 
with ! You have certainly challenged somebody, and you 
came here to fight him. Now, if that gentleman is willing 
to represent him — I can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just 
the same thing. 

Acres. — Why, no, Sir Lucius ; I tell you, 'tis one Bever- 
ley I've challenged — a fellow, you see, that dare not show 
his face. If he were here, I'd make him give up his pre- 
tensions directly. 

Captain Absolute. — Hold, Bob — let me set you right — 
there is no such man as Beverley in the case. The person 
who assumed that name is before you ; and as his preten- 
sions are the same in both characters, he is ready to sup- 
port them in whatever way you please. 

Sir Lucius. — Well, this is lucky. Now you have an op- 
portunity 

Acres. — What, quarrel with my dear friend, Jack Abso- 
lute ! — not if he were fifty Beverleys ! Zounds ! Sir Lucius, 
you would not have me so unnatural ! 

Sir Lucius. — Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valor 
has oozed away with a vengeance ! 

Acres. — Not in the least ! odds backs and abettors ! I'll 
be your second with all my heart — and if you should get a 
quietus, you may command me entirely. I'll get you snug 
lying in the Abbey here ; or pickle you, and send you over 
to Blunderbuss Hall, or anything of the kind, with the great- 
est pleasure. 

Sir Lucius. — Pho ! pho ! you are little better than a 
coward. 

Acres. — Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward ; coward 
was the word, by my valor ! 



THE CHALLENGE. 97 

Sir Lucius. — Well, sir? 

Acres. — Lookye, Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word 
coward — Coward may be said in a joke — But if you had 
called me a poltroon, odds daggers and balls ! 

Sir Lucius. — Well, sir? 

Acres. — I should have thought you a very ill-bred man, 
but if ever I give you a chance of pickling me again, say 
Bob Acres is a dunce, that's all. (He goes out The others 
salute each other and file off.) 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 



Adapted from " The Bondman," by Hall Caine. 



CHARACTERS. 

Adam Fairbroth a benevolent old man. 

Asher, Ross, Thurstan, Jacob, John, his sons,— farmers. 

Chaise A'Killey, old faithful servajit to Adam. 

Ruth Fairbrother, miserly, unaffectionate wife of A~dam. 

Greeba Fairbrother, beautiful, loving daughter to Adam. 

Situation. — The scene is laid in the Isle of Man. Adam 
Fairbrother has just been superseded in the governor- 
generalship of the isle. His generosity while in office 
has left him penniless. Even his ancestral home he 
has given by deed to his miserly wife, who lives on 
the estate with the sons, lazy, worthless fellows. A 
stranger, Michael Sunlocks, has taken the sons' place 
i?i the father's heart, and he has also won the affections 
of Greeba, and now seeks his fortune in Iceland. In 
Sunlock's absence, Jason Orry lays unsuccessful siege 
to her heart. Adam, in his penury, returns to his old 
home for protection but meets with the following recep- 
tion. 

Mrs. Fairbrother is sitting on one side of the platform 
front, knitti7ig. Enter behind her Adam, who takes a 
seat by the fireplace opposite ; Greeba follows and 
stands back of his chair ; Chalse shambles into the 
rear, scratching vaca?itly his uncovered head. 

9* 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 99 

Mrs. Fairbrother {drawing herself up and holding back 
her skirts). — And pray, what ill wind blows you here ? 

Adam. — An ill wind indeed, Ruth, for it is the wind of 
adversity. You must have heard of our misfortune, since 
the whole island knows of it. Well, it is not for me to 
complain, for God shapes our ways and He knows what is 
best. But I am an old man now, Ruth, little able to look 
to myself, still less to another, and 

Mrs. Fairbrother {tapping with her foot on the floor). — 
Cut it short, sir. What do you want? 

Adam {with stupefied look but quietly). — I want to come 
home, Ruth. 

Mrs. Fairbrother {sharply) . — Home ! And what home, 
if you please ? 

Adam {with a momentary struggle) . — What home, Ruth? 
Why, what home but this? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — This indeed ! This is not your 
home. 

Adam {dropping back into his seat, dumfounded) . — Not 
my home ! (Suddenly bracing up.) Not my home ! Did 
you say this was not my home? Why, woman, I was born 
here ; so was my father before me, and my father's father 
before him. Five generations of my people have lived and 
died here, and the very roof rafters over your head must 
know us. 

Mrs. Fairbrother.— Hoity-toity ! and if you had lived 
here much longer not a rafter of them all would have been 
left to shelter us. No, sir. I've kept the roof on this 
house, and it is mine. 

Adam {slowly). — It is yours, indeed, for I gave it you. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — You gave it me ! Say I took it 
as my right when all that you had was slipping through your 
fingers like sand, as everything does that ever touches them. 

LofC. 



IOO THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 

Adam {drawing himself tip with dignity) . — There is one 
thing that has indeed slipped through my fingers like sand, 
and that is the fidelity of the woman who swore before God 
forty and odd years ago to love and honor me. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Crinkleum-crankum ! A pretty 
thing, truly, that I should toil and moil at my age to keep 
house and home together, ready and waiting for you, when 
your zany doings have shut every other door against you. 
Misfortunes, indeed ! A fine name for your mistakes ! 

Adam. — I may have made mistakes, madam, but true it 
is, as the wise man has said, that he who has never made 
mistakes has never made anything. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Tush ! 

Adam. — Ruth, do you refuse to take me in? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — This house is mine, mine by law 
and deed, as tight as wax can make it. 

Adam {rising to his feet). — Do you refuse to take me in? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — You have brought ruin on yourself 
by your shilly-shally and vain folly, and now you think to 
pat your nose and say your prayers by my fireside. 

Adam. — Ruth, do you refuse to take me in ? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Yes, and that I do. You would 
beggar me as you have beggared yourself, but that I warrant 
you never shall. {Grim silence for a moment.) 

Adam {gripping his staff convulsively). — God give me 
patience. Yes, I'll bear it meekly. Ruth, I'll not trouble 
you. Make yourself sure of that. While there's a horse- 
wallet to hang on my old shoulders, and a bit of barley- 
bread to put in it, I'll rove the country round, but I'll never 
come on my knees to you and say, " I am your husband, I 
gave you all you had, and you are rich and I'm a beggar, 
and I am old — give me for charity my bed and board." — 
{He gives way to wrath ) Out on you, woman ! Out on 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. IOI 

you ! God forgive me the evil day I set eyes on you ! 
God forgive me the damned day I took you to my breast 
to rend it ! 

Greeba (she has silently watched with quivering eyelashes 
and clenched 'fingers, and now steps forward) . — Forgive him, 
mother. Do not be angry with him. He will be sorry foi 
what he has said ; I'm sure he will. But only think, deai 
mother ; he is in great, great trouble, and he is past work, 
and if this is not his home, then he is homeless. 

Adam (dropping back into his chair and weeping). — I am 
not ashamed of my tears, child, but they are not shed for 
myself. Nor did I come here for my own sake, though 
your mother thinks I did. No, child, no ; say no more. 
I'll repent me of nothing I have said to her — no, not a 
word. She is a hard, cruel woman ; but, thank heaven, I 
have my sons left to me yet. She is not flesh of my flesh, 
though one with me in wedlock ; but they are, and they 
will never see their father turned from the door. 

Enter three sons, Asher, Ross, and Thurstan. 

This is not your will, Asher? 

Asher. — I do not know what you mean, sir. 

Mrs. Fairbrother (her ap?-on to her eyes). — He has 
damned your mother and cursed the day he married her. 

Adam. — But she is turning me out of the house. This 
house — my father's house. 

Asher. — Ask her pardon, sir, and she will take you back. 

Adam. — Her pardon ! God in heaven ! 

Thurstan. — You are an old man, now, sir. 

Adam. — So I am ; so I am. 

Thurstan. — And you are poor as well. 

Adam. — That's true, Thurstan ; that's true, though youi 
brother forgets it. 



102 THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 

Thurstan. — So you should not hold youi head too high. 

Adam.— What ! Are you on her side, also? Asher, 
Thurstan, Ross, you are my sons — would you see me turned 
out of the house? 

Asher {all three hang their heads) . — What mother says 
he must agree to. 

Adam. — But I gave you all I had. If I am old I am 
your father, and if I am poor you know best who made me 
so. 

Thurstan. — W T e are poor, too, sir ; we have nothing, and 
we do not forget who is to blame for it. 

Ross. — You gave everything away from us ; and because 
your bargain is a rue bargain, you want us now to stand 
aback of you. 

Enter Jacob and John. 

Jacob (sneeringly). — Ah, yes, and who took the side of 
a stranger against his own children? What of your good 
Michael Sunlocks, now, sir? Is he longing for you? Or 
have you never had the scribe of a line from him since he 
turned his back on you, four years ago ? 

Greeba {angrily, with flashing eyes). — For shame, for 
shame ! Oh, you mean, pitiful men, to bait and badger 
him like this. {Jacob laughs?) 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Chut, girl, you're waxing apace with 
your big words, considering you're a chit that has wasted 
her days in London and hasn't learned to muck a byre yet. 

Adam {stunned). — Not for myself, no, not for myself, 
though they all think it. ( To his sons.) You think I came 
to beg for bed and board for myself, you are wrong. I 
came to demand it for the girl. I may have no claim upon 
you, but she has, for she is one with you all and can ask 
for her own. She has no home with her father now, for it 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. IO3 

seems that he has none for himself ; but her home is here, 
and here I mean to leave her. 

John. — Not so fast, sir. All she can ever claim is what 
may one day be hers when we ourselves come into any- 
thing. Meantime, like her brothers, she has nothing but 
what she works for. 

Adam. — Works for, you wagtail ? She is a woman ! Do 
you hear? A woman ! 

John {snapping his fingers) . — Woman or man, where's 
the difference here? 

Adam. — Where's the difference, you jackanapes? Do 
you ask me where's the difference here ? Here? In grace, 
in charity, in unselfishness, in faith in the good, in fidelity 
to the true, in filial love and duty ! There's the difference, 
you jackanapes. 

John. — You are too old to quarrel with, sir. I will spare 
you. 

Adam. — Spare me, you whippersnapper ! You will spare 
me ! But, oh, let me have patience ! If I have cursed 
the day I first saw my wife, let me not also curse the hour 
when she first bore children, and my heart was glad. Asher, 
you are my first-born, and heaven knows what you were to 
me. You will not stand by and listen to this. She is your 
sister, my son. Think of it, — your only sister. 

Asher {indifferently). — The girl is nothing to me. She 
is nothing to any of us. She has been with you all the 
days of her life, except such as you made her to spend with 
strangers. She is no sister of ours. 

Adam {to Ross). — And do you say the same? 

Ross. — What can she do here? Nothing. This is no 
place for your great ladies. We work here, every man and 
woman of us, from daylight to dark, in the fields and in the 
dairy. Best send her back to her fine friends in London. 



104 THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 

Jacob {smiling into Greeba's face). — Ay, or marry hel 
straight off — that is the shortest way. I heard a little bird 
tell of some one who might have her. Don't look astonished, 
Miss, for I make no doubt you know who it is. He is away 
on the mountains now, but he'll be home before long. 

Adam (struggling with his emotion) . — If she is not your 
sister, at least she is your mother's daughter, and a mother 
knows what that means. (He turns to Mrs. Fairbrother.) 
Ruth, the child is your daughter, and by that deed you 
speak of, she is entitled to her share of all that is here 

Mrs. Fairbrother (sharply) . — Yes, but only when I am 
done with it. 

Adam. — Even so, would you see the child want before 
that, or drive her into any marriage, no matter what? 

Mrs. Fairbrother (deliberately) — I will take her on one 
condition. 

Adam. — What is it, Ruth? Name it, that I may grant it. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — That you shall give up all control 
of her, and that she shall give up all thought of you. 

Adam. — What? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — That you shall never again expect 
to see her or hear from her, or hold commerce of any kind 
with her. 

Adam. — But why? Why? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Because I may have certain plans 
for her future welfare that you might try to spoil. 

Adam. — Do they concern Michael Sunlocks? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — No, indeed. 

Adam. — Then, they concern young Jason, the Icelander. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — If so, it is my concernment. 

Adam. — And that is your condition? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Yes. 

Adam. — And you ask me to part from her, forever ? Think 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 105 

of it, she is my only daughter. She has been the light of 
my eyes. You have never loved her as I have loved her. 
You know it is the truth. And you ask me to see her no 
more, and never more to hear from her. Now, God punish 
you for this, you cold-hearted woman ! 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Take care, sir. Fewer words, or 
mayhap I will recall my offer. If you are wise you will be 
calm for the girl's sake. 

Adam {dropping his head). — You are right. It is not for 
me to take the bread out of my child's mouth. She shall 
choose for herself. (He twists round in his chair and looks 
up at her.) Greeba, my darling, you see how it is. I am 
old and very poor, and heaven pity my blind folly. I have 
no home to offer you, for I have none to shelter my own 
head. Don't fear for me, for I have no fear for myself. I 
will be looked to in the few days that remain to me and 
come what may, the sorry race of my foolish life will soon 
be over. But you have made no mistakes that merit my 
misfortunes. So choose, my child, choose. It is poverty 
with me or plenty with your mother. Choose, my child, 
choose ; and let it be quickly, let it be quickly, for my old 
heart is bursting. 

Greeba (drawing herself up proudly) . — Choose ? There 
is no choice. I will go with my father, and follow him 
over the world, though we have no covering but the skies 
above us. 

Adam (leaping from his chair in joy) . — Do you hear that, 
you people? There's grace and charity, and unselfishness, 
and love left in the world still. Thank heaven, I have not 
yet to curse the day her body brought forth children. 
Come, Greeba, we will go our ways, and God's protection 
will go with us. " I have been young and now am old, yet 
have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging 



106 THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 

bread." (He strides across the platform to the door he en- 
tered, stops and looks back at the group of his sons.) And 
you, you unnatural sons, I cast you out of my mind. I give 
you up to your laziness and drunkenness and vain pleasures. 
I am going to one who is not flesh of my flesh, and yet he 
is my son indeed. (He starts out, but again turns ana 
faces his wife.) As for you, woman, your time will come. 
Remember that ! Remember that ! 

Greeba (laying a hand on his shoulder) . — Come, father, 
come. 

Adam (again turning back) . — Farewell, all of you ! Fare- 
well ! You will see me no more. May a day like this that 
has come to your father never, never come to you. (He 
breaks down, reels, and Greeba helps him out, while he sobs 
out the following apostrophe.) Sunlocks, my boy; Sun- 
locks, I am coming to you — I am coming to you. (He 
goes out with Greeba?) 

Chalse (muttering). — Strange, the near I was to crucify- 
ing the Lord afresh and swearing a mortal swear, only I 
remembered my catechism and the good John Wesley. 
(He goes out.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. 



Adapted from " The Last Days of Pompeii/' by Bulwer Lytton. 



CHARACTERS. 

Glaucus, a handso?ne, graceful and rich Greek. 

lone, a brilliant and beatitiful young woman, born in 
Naples of Greek parents. 

The Witch, an old wrinkled, weather-beaten hag, bent and 
lame. 

Situation. — Glaucus has taken Ione on a little journey and 
on the return they are overtaken by a violent stor?7i not 
far from the Witch's cavern. They hurry into this 
gloomy place, where the Witch questions them and 
curses them. 

On one side is a fire with a small cauldron over it. 
Herbs and weeds are hung in lines to dry. The fire 
gives a weird light on the face of the hag. There is a 
fox couchi?ig by the fire, and a heap of sculls of animals 
in the corner. 

Glaucus and Ione must enter in garments spattered 
with rain and mud. The snake need not be real or 
apparent. It will be sufficient for all three actors to 
imagine it present. 

The Witch is seated before the fire with dried weeds heaped 
at her feet. She sorts weeds and sti?s the cauldron. 

Witch. — Years ago I was not the thing that I am now. 

107 



108 THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. 

I loved and I fancied I was beloved. Another and less 
fair than I — yes, by Nemesis ! less fair — allured my chosen 
from me. We all in my dark Etrurian tribe knew the 
secrets of the gloomier Magic. My mother, too, she was a 
Saga. O mother, you shared the resentment of thy child. 
You, even you, gave me the poison that was to destroy my 
rival. Oh, crush me, dread walls, that my trembling hands 
should mistake the phials and I should see my lover indeed 
at my feet, but dead ! dead ! — What has life been to me 
since? How suddenly I became old ! How long I have 
given myself to these sorceries of my race ! Still by an ir- 
resistible impulse I curse myself; still I seek the most 
noxious herbs ; still I concoct poisons ; still I imagine that 
I am to give them to my hated rival ; still I pour them into 
the phial ; still I fancy that they shall blast her beauty to 
the dust ; still I wake and see the quivering body, the foam- 
ing lips, the glazing eyes of my Aulus, — murdered, and by 
me ! (She shudders and shakes fro ?n head to foot and then 
she sits very still.) 

Enter Glaucus and Ione. They stand by the door. 

Glaucus. — It is a dead thing. 

Ione (faltering and clinging to him). — Nay it stirs, — 
it is a ghost or 

Witch (in a hollow and ghostly tone). — Who are ye? 
And what do ye here ? 

Glaucus (drawing lone farther into cavern).— -We are 
storm-beaten wanderers from the neighboring city, and de- 
coyed hither by your light ; we crave shelter and the com- 
fort of your hearth. 

Witch. — Come to the fire if ye will. I never welcome 
living thing, save the owl, the fox, the toad and the viper, so 
I cannot welcome ye ; but come to the fire without wel- 
come; why stand upon form? (She relapses into het 



THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. IO9 

profound reverie, Glaucus takes off Ione's outer wraps 
and places a log for her to sit on near the fire.) 

Ione. — We disturb you, I fear. 

Witch (after a long pause). — Tell me, are ye brother 
and sister? 

Ione (blushing). — No. 

Witch. — Are ye married? 

Glaucus. — Not so. 

Witch. — Ho, lovers ! ha ! ha ! ha ! (She laughs long 
and loud.) 

Glaucus (after muttering a counter spell). — Why dost 
thou laugh, old crone? 

Witch (absently). — Did I laugh? 

Glaucus (to lone, in a low tone). — She is in her dotage. 

Witch (she has heard the words and has caught his 
eye). — Thou liest ! 

Glaucus. — Thou art an uncourteous welcomer. 

Ione (to Glaucus). — Hush ! provoke her not, dear 
Glaucus ! 

Witch. — I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered 
ye were lovers. It was because it is a pleasure to the old 
and withered to look upon young hearts like yours and to 
know the time will come when you will loathe each other, — 
loathe — loathe — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ione. — The gods forbid ! yet poor woman, thou knowest 
little of love or thou wouldst know that it never changes. 

Witch (quickly). — Was I young once, think ye, and am I 
old and hideous and deathly now? Such as is the form so 
is the heart. (She sinks again into a profound stillness?) 

Glaucus (after a pause) . — Hast thou dwelt here long ? 

Witch. — Ah, long ! — yes! 

Glaucus. — It is but a drear abode. 

Witch. — Ha ! thou mayst well say that. Hell is beneath 



IIO THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. 

us ! (She points to the earth.) And I will tell thee a 
secret : the dim things below are preparing wrath for ye 
above, — you, the young, and the thoughtless, and the beauti- 
ful. 

Glaucus. — Thou utterest but evil words, ill becoming 
the hospitable, and in future I will brave the tempest rather 
than thy welcome. 

Witch. — Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me, 
save the wretched. 

Glaucus. — And why the wretched? 

Witch (with a grin). — I am the witch of the mountain. 
My trade is to give hope to the hopeless. For the crossed 
in love I have philtres ; for the avaricious, promises of 
treasure ; for the malicious, potions of revenge ; for the 
happy and the good, I have only what life has, — curses ! 
(She turns away.) Trouble me no more. 

Glaucus (turns to lone who is seated, drops on his 
knee, seizes her hand and says tenderly) . — lone ! lone ! 

Ione (suddenly, seeing a snake emerge from the dry roots 
on the floor, shrieks and seizes Glaucus). — Oh ! Glaucus, 
look. 

Glaucus (seizing a half-burned stick to beat off the 
snake) . — Witch, command thy creature, or thou wilt see it 
dead. 

Witch (quickly aroused) . — It has been despoiled of its 
venom. ( Glaucus watches the snake which rises up to 
strike at him, and before he has caught the meaning of the 
Witch's words, hits the snake so hard a blow on the head 
thai it falls writhing to the floor. The Witch springs up 
with a face full of wrath.) Thou hast had shelter under 
my roof, and warmth at my hearth ; thou hast returned 
evil for good ; thou hast smitten and haply slain the thing 
that loved me and was mine ; nay more, the creature above 



THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. Ill 

all others consecrated to gods, and deemed venerable by 
man ; now hear thy punishment. By the moon, who is the 
guardian of the sorceress, by Orcus, who is the treasurer of 
wrath, I curse thee, and thou art cursed ! May thy love be 
blasted, may thy name be blackened, may the Infernals 
mark thee, may thy heart wither and scorch, may thy last 
hour recall to thee the prophet voice of the Sage of Vesu- 
vius ! {She turns to lone.) And thou 

Glaucus. — Hag ! forbear ! Me thou hast cursed and I 
commit myself to the gods. I defy and scorn thee. But 
breathe but one word against yon maiden, and I will con- 
vert the oath on thy foul lips to thy dying groan. Beware ! 

Witch {laughing wildly). — I have done, for in thy doom 
is she who loves thee accursed. And not the less, that I 
heard her lips breathe thy name, and know by what word 
to commend thee to the demons. Glaucus, thou art 
doomed ! {She turns from them, drops on her knees and 
searches for the wounded snake, paying no attention to them.) 

Ione {greatly terrified) . — O Glaucus ! what have we 
done ? Let us hasten from this place. The storm has 
ceased. — Good mistress, forgive him ; recall thy words ; he 
meant but to defend himself ; accept this peace-offering to 
unsay the said. {She puts her purse in the Witch's lap.) 

Witch {bitterly) . — Away ! away ! The oath once woven 
the Fates only can untie. Away ! 

Glaucus {impatiently) . — Come, dearest ! Thinkest thou 
that the gods above us or below hear the impotent ravings 
of dotage? Come ! {The Witch laughs long and loud. 
Glaucus and Ione go out.) 

CURTAIN 



HIS ENEMY'S HONOR. 



CHARACTERS. 

MacPherson, a very powerful Scot with some Scotch plaid 
apparent. 

MacPhail, Bruce, Drummond, friends of MacPherson. 

Sinclair, a young man of a different clanfro7n the rest and 
of half drunken frenzy. He wears a different Scotch 
plaid from MacPherson's. 

Situation. — In a drunken quarrel between two groups from 
different clans Sinclair has killed a ?nan and rushes 
off for safety. Hardly himself he does not recog?iize 
the house of his bitter enemy and stumbles into the 
room where the following scene takes place. 

There should be an entrance from each side of the 
platform, and a stout club near the door from which 
MacPherson comes. 

Enter Sinclair in great confusion. 
Sinclair. — What, ho ! Who hears? A stranger claims a 
refuge ! Refuge and help ! Is no one in the house ? 
{To himself.} 'Twas a hot chase — but I have distanced them ! 
My brain still whirls — the wine is not yet out. 
What have I done, O, fatal, fatal frenzy ! 
Now it comes back — the dire reality ! 
O, irretrievable and utter wreck 
Of all my hopes, made in one drunken moment ! 
This morning rich in all that graces life, 

112 



his enemy's honor. 113 

And now — a miserable homicide, 
A hunted fugitive ! 

Enter MacPherson from the other side of the platform. 

MacPherson. — A stranger here ? 
I knew not any one was in the room. 
Did no one wait upon you? 

Sinclair. — No. I entered 
By stealth one of the windows in the basement, 
And made my way unchallenged to this room. 
I am pursued — my life is in your hands — 
I throw myself for shelter on your mercy! 

MacPherson. — Pursued? For what? No crime, I hope? 

Sinclair. — No crime, 
Premeditate in act or in intent — 
Nothing to stain my honor ; — yet a deed 
To blacken all my future — ay, to make it 
One long sigh of repentance ! At a tavern, 
A few miles off,, a party of us stopped 
And dined. The wine flashed freely. We partook 
More than our brains could carry. Up there came 
Another party of young men, elated, 
Like us, with wine. Quick wakener of contention, 
Politics grew the theme — high words ensued — 
The lie was given — a blow — a fatal blow ! — 
Was struck — and I the giver ! the receiver 
Fell backward — hit the curb-stone with his neck — 
Rose — staggered — dropped — and died ! 

MacPherson. — Unhappy chance ! 

Sinclair. — When the appalling fear that I had killed him 
Grew to conviction, I stood motionless 
And mute with horror. Then a cry of Vengeance / 



114 his enemy's honor. 

Broke from his friends. Mine, overpowered, urged me 
To fly. I ran, scarce knowing how or why, — 
But, with such speed, I soon left my pursuers 
Far out of sight. At length I reached this house, 
And here I stand your suppliant. 

MacPherson. — Your reliance 
Shall not be disappointed. On my hearth 
You stand, a sacred guest. Let that suffice. 
Why do you start? 

Sinclair. — Because your tartan tells me, 
My foes are of your clan. 

MacPherson. — And what of that? 
Did a Macgregor ever yet betray 
Or friend or foe? Did a disloyal host 
Ever yet bear our name ? Fear not. Your trust 
Shall be respected. If I heard aright, 
The deed was one of passion, not of malice. 

Sinclair. — O, not of malice — not of brooding malice I 
But momentary anger — anger, that, 
Quick as the lightning, was as quickly ended, 
Leaving a desolation and regret ! 
O, in that fatal wine-cup there was melted 
A pearl of price, — the relish of a life ! 
Never again the morning sunlight reddening 
My window-pane shall wake a thrill of joy ! 
Never again the smile of innocence 
Shall be reflected from these haggard lips ! 
That sad, appealing look my victim gave me, 
In his last dying throe, will paint itself 
On the void air, and make my memory 
A funeral chamber for the dreadful image 
Forever ! 

MacPherson. — I'll not try to blunt the edge 



his enemy's honor. 115 

Of your great sorrow. 'T is a wholesome pain. 
That man is less than man who can destroy 
The sacred human life and feel no awe, 
No swelling of compunction. I'd not trust him ! 
To time and to God's mercy I commit you. 

(An impatient knocking is heard outside of the house.) 

Sinclair {listens) . — Hark ! They have tracked me here! 
They knock for entrance, 
1 hear their voices. Now the door is opened ! 
They're on the stairs. In their revenge and fury, 
Attempt to stay them, they will dash you down. 

MacPherson. — Enter that room. Whatever you may 
hear, 
Be mute and do not stir. Fear not for me. 

(Sinclair goes out through the same door by which Mac- 
Pherson enle7-ed. Enter MacPhail and Bruce.) 

MacPhail. — He is not here ! 

Bruce. — I know not that. — MacPherson, 
A fugitive is sheltered in this house. 
Deny it not. Show us his hiding-place. 

MacPherson. — Unmannerly clown ! And if a fugitive 
Were here, am I the man to give him up 
On such a summons? Master Archie Bruce 
Go home, and bid your teachers keep you there 
Till you can show a touch of gentle breeding 
When you accost a gentleman. 

MacPhail. — MacPherson, 
You'll blame us not for our disdain of forms, 
When you hear all. You'll readily give up 
The miscreant when you learn he is the slayer 
Of your own son — of Albert ! 

MacPherson. — No ! No ! No ! 



Il6 HIS enemy's honor. 

Albert MacPherson slain? A trick ! A trick 

To get possession of the fugitive ! 

To make me play the recreant — the traitor. 

Bruce. — So ! He admits it ! He admits the culprit 
Is in this house ! 

MacPherson. — I admit nothing. Boy ! 
If what you say is true, — that he — my son — 
Is slain — (and now the anguish at my heart 
Confirms the direful blow) — is't not enough, 
For one day's woe, that I'm bereft of him — 
Would ye bereave me of my honor too? 

MacPhail. — MacPherson, your own words betray the 
fact, 
That here our man is harbored. 

We must pass through this door. (He goes toward the 
door through which Sinclair passed out?) 

MacPherson. — Must pass, MacPhail? Back — trifler ! 
Must, indeed ! 
'T is a MacPherson you are dealing with. 
Must is a word that he's not wont to hear 
In his own house — or elsewhere. 

MacPhail (with stiff politeness). — Then, MacPherson, 
I pray you suffer us to pass. (Bruce and MacPhail ap- 
proach him as if to lay hands on him.) 

MacPherson (seizing the club) . — Stand back ! (They 
fall back?) 
This is my house, and I am master of it. 
Keep a respectful distance. 

MacPhail. — Give us up 
The wretch at once or we'll call in assistance. 

MacPherson. — Then you shall know what desperation is, 
And we'll have havoc. Would you madden me ? 

Bruce. — The man you shelter is a murderer — 



HIS ENEMY S HONOR. II 7 

The murderer of your son ! (A paused) 

MacPhail. — You hear, MacPherson? 

MacPherson. — Were he the murderer of all my clan, — 
If he had made my hearth a sanctuary, — 
If I had given my word to shelter him, — 
So help me, Heaven ! — I'd perish, hacked in pieces, 
Ere I would violate the sacred pledge ! 
Enter Drummond. 

Drummond. — Where is the homicide ? 

Bruce. — Concealed within, 
As we believe. MacPherson bars our entrance. 
A loving father, truly, 
To try to screen the murderer of his son ! 

MacPherson. — What wouldst thou be? The murderer 
of my honor ! 
Reviler, mocker of a father's anguish, — 
Think you I could have loved my son so well, 
Carried I here the stuff traitors are made of? 
Think you the bitterness of my bereavement 
Sharp as it is, beyond your poor conception, 
Could parallel the pang of treachery 
In a true heart — in a MacPherson heart? 

Drummond. — You've done your best, MacPherson ! On 
your head 
No blame can fall. Away ! and let us enter. 
We must have life for life. Sinclair must die. 

MacPherson. — Sinclair ! You said Sinclair ? 

Drummond. — The son and heir 
Of your most deadly foe. 

MacPhail. — We had forgot 
To mention that. Now you'll not hesitate 
To give him up. 

MacPherson. — A double sanctity 



n8 HIS enemy's honor. 

Invests him now. If I had wavered, that 
One mention had confirmed me. 

Drummond. — We waste time. 
Enter we ??iust — by soft means or by hard. 

MacPherson. — Well, Master Drummond, enter if you 
dare ! 
Why do you wait ? Why waste the time you grudge ? 

Sinclair comes back. 

Sinclair. — From further parley I relieve you all ! 
MacPherson, I absolve you from your pledge. 
Thanks for your noble dealing, — for the honor, 
Stronger than vengeance, tenderer than love, 
That would protect one who has thrown a blight 

On all your joys 

Now, seekers of my life, come on and take it ! 
Be quick ! Ye'll only ease me of a burden 
My act has rendered hateful. 

Drummond. — Ho ! Secure him ! 

MacPherson (stepping in front of Sinclair). — I'd like to 
see the rash one who will venture 
To lay a finger, save in gentleness, 
Upon this youth. Back ! Tamperers with my honor ! 
Out of my house ! That man who tarries longer 
Is in great danger. Out of my house, I say ! (He brand- 
ishes the club and they all go out by the door they en- 
tered. He follows thei7i to the door and then co?nes 
back to cent7-e of platform , turns part round and buries 
his face in his hands.) 
Sinclair {approaching MacPherson and kneeling) . — Mac- 
Pherson, I am kneeling at your feet ! 

Not for my life — O, not to thank you, sir, 

For that poor boon which one ungoverned impulse 



his enemy's honor. 119 

Has emptied of all value, — but in token 
Of veneration for true nobleness, — 
Of the prostration of my wretchedness, — 
Of sympathy — of sorrow — of remorse ! 

MacPherson. — O, I am childless. 

Sinclair {rising). — That thought is like a knife 
In my own heart. Let there be expiation ! (He goes to 
the door his enemies just went out of and calls.) 
Drummond ! MacPhail ! Come, seize me ! 

MacPherson (seizing him). — Reckless boy! 
Would you thus frustrate all my pains to save you? 
Judge you so poorly of me as to think 
I nurse a brute revenge that blood of yours 
Alone can satisfy? — that my affliction 
Such balm could mitigate? 

Sinclair (covering his face). — O, let me die ! 

MacPherson. — No ! Be a man — and live ! Look up, 
Sinclair ! 
Hark ! (He goes and listens.) I hear angry voices. Youi 

pursuers 
In thicker numbers crowd. They will be here 
In half a minute. Come ! This way lies safety. 
They little know the secrets of my hold. 
We'll foil them. Do not doubt it. You shall hide 
Here in my house till I can guide you safely 
To Inverary to your friends. Delay not. 
Will you bring added woe upon my head? 
Moments are precious. Come ! 

Sinclair. — One word from you, 
And only one, shall from this spot uproot me, 
And that word is forgiveness / 

MacPherson. — I forgive you. 
As I would be forgiven, I forgive you. 



120 HIS ENEMY S HONOR. 

Sinclair (giving him his hand). — 
Lead on, then, my preserver ! 
O, let my future tell how much you lift 
From this despairing heart in that one word, — 
You do forgive me ! 

Now guide me and bestow me as you will ! 
Henceforth, above all prayers, shall rise this prayer, 
That I may live to comfort and requite you ! {They go out.) 



CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 



Adapted from Shakespeare's " Antony and CleopatraJ 



CHARACTERS. 

Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, dressed in flowing garments, 
and carrying a small dagger, concealed. 

Charmian, chief attendant on Cleopatra. 

Iras, another female attendant. 

Alexas, Mardian, male attendants on the Queen. 

A Messenger from Rome. 

Situation. — Antony has hurried away on imperial matters 
to Rome, leaving Cleopatra very disconsolate. She 
has now gathered her attendants about her in a vain 
endeavor to pass the time without weariness. 

In this scene, Cleopatra shows the most rapid and 
violent changes of emotion, all of which indicate her 
intense passion for the noble Antony. Charmian and 
Mardian are the only attendants that speak, but the 
others must act, fanning Cleopatra, arranging her 
chair or couch, standing guard at the door, etc. Cle- 
opatra ought to sit opposite the entrance and some 
distance from it; and the Messenger should do obeisance 
on entering, and approach very slowly. 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Alexas. 
Cleopatra. — Give me some music ; music, moody food 
Of us that trade in love. 

121 



122 CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 

All. — The music, ho ! 

Enter Mardian. 

Cleopatra. — Let it alone ; let's to billiards : come, Char- 
mian. 

Charmian. — My arm is sore ; best play with Mardian. 

Cleopatra. — Come, you'll play with me, sir? 

Mardian. — As well as I can, madam. 

Cleopatra. — And when good-will is show'd, though't 
come too short, 
The actor may plead pardon. I'll none now : 
Give me mine angle ; we'll to the river ; there, 
My music playing far off, I will betray 
Tawny-finn'd fishes ; my bended hook shall pierce 
Their shiny jaws, and as I draw them up, 
I'll think them every one an Antony, 
And say "Ah, ha ! you're caught." 

Charmian. — 'Twas merry when 
You wagered on your angling ; when your diver 
Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he 
With fervency drew up. 

Cleopatra. — That time — O times ! — 
I laughed him out of patience, and that night 
I laughed him into patience ; and next morn, 
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed ; 
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst 
I wore his sword Philippan. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Oh, from Italy ! 
Ram thou thy frightful tidings in mine ears, 
That long time have been barren. 

Messenger. — Madam, madam 

Cleopatra. — Antonius dead 1 If thou say so, villain, 



CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 123 

Thou kill'st thy mistress ; but well and free, 
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand that kings 
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. 

Messenger. — First, madam, he is well. 

Cleopatra. — Why, there's more gold. 
But, sirrah, mark we use 
To say the dead are well ; bring it to that, 
The gold I give thee will I melt and pour 
Down thy ill-uttering throat. 

Messenger. — Good madam, hear me. 

Cleopatra. — Well, go to, I will ; 
But there's no goodness in thy face ; if Antony 
Be free and healthful, — so tart a favor 
To trumpet such good tidings ! If not well, 
Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes, 
Not like a formal man. 

Messenger. — Will't please you hear me? 

Cleopatra. — I have a mind to strike thee ere thou 
speak'st : 
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, 
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, 
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 
Rich pearls upon thee. 

Messenger. — Madam, he's well. 

Cleopatra. — Well said. 

Messenger. — And friends with Caesar. 

Cleopatra. — Thou'rt an honest man. 

Messenger. — Caesar and he are greater friends than ever. 

Cleopatra. — Make thee a fortune from me. 

Messenger. — But yet, madam, 

Cleopatra. — I do not like " But yet," it does allay 
The good precedence ; fie upon " But yet ! " 



124 CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 

" But yet " is as a gaoler to bring forth 

Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, 

Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, 

The good and bad together : he's friends with Caesar, 

In state of health, thou say'st, and thou say'st, free. 

Messenger. — Free, madam ! no ; I made no such report ; 
He's bound unto Octavia. 

Cleopatra {turning away from him). — I am pale, Char- 

mian. 
Messenger. — Madam, he's married to Octavia. 
Cleopatra. — The most infectious pestilence upon thee ! 

(She strikes him down.) 
Messenger. — Good madam, patience. 
Cleopatra. — What say you? Hence. (She strikes him 
again.) 
Horrible villain ! or I'll spurn thine eyes 
Like balls before me : I'll unhair thy head. ( She drags him 

up and down.) 
Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, 
Smarting in lingering pickle. 

Messenger. — Gracious madam, I that do bring the news 

made not the match. 
Cleopatra. — Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee 
And make thy fortunes proud ; the blow thou hadst 
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage, 
And I will boot thee with what gift beside 
Thy modesty can beg. 

Messenger. — He's married, madam. 

Cleopatra. — Rogue, thou hast lived too long. (She 

diaws a knife.) 
Messenger. — Nay, then I'll run. 
What mean you, madam ? I have made no fault. (He runs 
out.) 



CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 1 25 

Charmian. — Good madam, keep yourself within yourself. 
The man is innocent. 

Cleopatra. — Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt. 
Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures 
Turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again : 
Though I am mad, I will not bite him : call. ( Charmian 
goes to the door and beckons in vain.) 

Charmian. — He is afeard to come. 

Cleopatra. — I will not hurt him. (Charmian goes out.) 
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike 
A meaner than myself ; since I myself 
Have given myself the cause. 

Re-enter Charmian dragging in the Messenger, 

Come hither, sir. 
Though it be honest, it is never good 
To bring bad news : give to a gracious message 
An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell 
Themselves when they be felt. 

Messenger. — I have done my duty. 

Cleopatra. — Is he married? 
I cannot hate thee worser than I do, 
If thou again say " Yes." 

Messenger. — He's married, madam. 

Cleopatra. — -The gods confound thee ! dost thou hold 
there still? 

Messenger. — Should I lie, madam? 

Cleopatra. — O, I would thou didst, 
So half my Egypt were submerged and made 
A cistern for scaled snakes ! Go, get thee hence : 
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me 
Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married? 

Messenger. — I crave your highness' pardon. 



126 CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 

Cleopatra. — He is married? 

Messenger. — Take no offense that I would not offend you : 
To punish me for what you make me do 
Seems much unequal : he's married to Octavia. 

Cleopatra. — O that his fault should make a knave of thee, 
That art not what thou'rt sure of ! Get thee hence : 
The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome 
Are all too dear for me : lie they upon thy hand 
And be undone by 'em. (Messenger goes out.) 

Charmian. — Good your highness, patience. 

Cleopatra. — In praising Antony, I have dispraised Caesar. 

Charmian. — Many times, madam. 

Cleopatra. — I am paid for't now. 
Lead me from hence ; 
I faint : O Iras, Charmian ! 'tis no matter, 
Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him 
Report the feature of Octavia, her years, 
Her inclination ; let him not leave out 
The color of her hair : bring me word quickly. {Alexas 

goes out.) 
Let him for ever go : let him not — Charmian, 
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, 
The other way's a Mars. {To Mardian.) Bid you Alexas 
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, 
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. (They 
go out) 



THE BISHOP'S SILVER CANDLESTICKS. 



Adapted from Victor Hugo's " Les Miserables." 



CHARACTERS. 

Bishop Welcome, a venerable, kind-hearted old man. 
Madame Magloire, the Bishop's housekeeper. 
Jean Valjean, an escaped convict of great strength. 
A Corporal of Police and three Officers. 
Situation. — The convict after searching i?i vain for a night's 
lodging has been received by the Bishop, given supper 
and a bed. At three d' clock in the morning he rose, 
stole the Bishop's basket of silver plate and went away. 
The scene which follows is in the morning when the 
discovery of the robbery is made. Jean Valjean is 
arrested and brought back, but is pardoned by the ten- 
der-hearted Bishop and given two candlesticks in ad- 
dition to what he has stolen. 
An empty basket for silver plate is lying on the floor. The 
Bishop enters slowly, picks it up and is walking on 
when Madame Magloire rushes in. 
Madame. — Monseigneur, monseigneur ! does your Gran- 
deur know where the plate-basket is ? 
Bishop. — Yes. 

Madame. — The Lord be praised ; I did not know what 
had become of it. 

Bishop. — Here it is. (Hands it to her.) 
Madame. — Well ! there is nothing in it ; where is the plate ? 
Bishop. — Ah ! it is the plate that troubles your mind. 
Well, I do not know where that is. 

127 



128 THE BISHOP'S SILVER CANDLESTICKS. 

Madame. — Good Lord ! it is stolen, and that man who 
came last night is the robber. {She rushes out, but soon 
hurries back and screams.} Monseigneur, the man is gone! 
the plate is stolen! {Her eyes fall on a corner of the gar- 
den.) That is the way he went ! He leaped into the lane ! 
Oh, what an outrage ! He has stolen our plate ! 

Bishop {after a moment's silence, raising earnest eyes) . — ■ 
By the way, was that plate ours? {Madame is speechless.) 
Madame Magloire, I had wrong-fully held back this silver, 
which belonged to the poor. Who was this person? Evi- 
dently a poor man. 

Madame. — Good gracious ! I do not care for it, nor does 
Mademoiselle, but we feel for Monseigneur. With what will 
Monseigneur eat now? 

Bishop {in amazement). — Why! are there not pewter 
forks to be had ? 

Madame {with a shrug) . — Pewter smells. 

Bishop. — Then iron ! 

Madame {with a grimace) . — Iron tastes. 

Bishop. — Well, then — wood? {He seems thoughtful.) 

Madame {to herself). — What an idea ! to receive a man 
like that and lodge him by one's side. And what a bless- 
ing it is that he only stole ! Oh, Lord ! the mere thought 
makes a body shudder. {She goes out.) 

Bishop {in answer to a knock at the door). — Come in. 
{The corporal and tlwee men enter holding another by the 
collar?) 

Corporal {with a militaiy salute) . — Monseigneur. 

Convict {to himself) . — Monseigneur, then he is not the 
curate. 

Officer. — Silence ! this gentleman is Monseigneur the 
Bishop. 

Bishop {advancing with a look of pleasure) . — Ah ! there 



THE BISHOP'S CANDLESTICKS. 1 29 

you are. I am glad to see you. Why, I gave you the 
candlesticks too, which are also of silver, and will fetch you 
two hundred francs. Why did you not take them away 
with the rest of the plate? (A strange puzzled look comes 
over the countenance of the convict.') 

Corporal. — Monseigneur, what this man told us was true 
then? We met him, and as he looked as if he were run- 
ning away, we arrested him. He had this plate 

Bishop {with a smile). — And he told you that it was given 
to him by an old priest at whose house he passed the 
night? I see it all. And you brought him back here? 
That is a mistake. 

Corporal. — In that case we can let him go ? 

Bishop. — Of course. {The officers loose their hold and 
Jean Valjean staggers back.) 

Convict (in utter bewilderment) . — Is it true that I am 
at liberty? 

An Officer. — Yes, you are let go ; don't you understand ? 

Bishop. — My friend, before you go take your candlesticks. 
(The old bishop goes to mantelpiece, takes candlesticks and 
carries them over to the convict who visibly trembles, yet re- 
ceives them.) Now, go in peace. By the bye when you 
return, my friend, it is unnecessary to pass through the 
garden, for you can always enter, day and night, by the 
front door, which is only latched. (Turning to the Police 
officers.) Gentlemen, you can retire. (They go out. 
The bishop approaches the convict and speaks in a low voiced) 
Never forget that you have promised me to employ this 
money in becoming an honest man. My brother, you no 
longer belong to evil, but to good. I have bought your 
soul of you. I withdraw it from black thoughts and the 
spirit of perdition, and give it to God. (The look of be- 
wilderment on the convicfs face changes to veneration for 
the bishop and he goes out.) 



THE PEASANT BOY'S VINDICATION. 



The last scene of " The Peasant Boy," a very old play by Dimond. 



CHARACTERS. 



Alberti, the Duke, just returned from the wars. 

Montaldi, his brother, just returned from the gaming tables 
of Italy, where he has lost heavily. 

Julian, an honest-looking young peasant. 

Ludovico, a friend <?/" Alberti, who has met Montaldi else- 
where and knows his character. 

Stefano, a guard who arrests Julian. 

Situation. — Montaldi in despair at his gambling losses ar- 
rives at Alberti's home to find that his brother is ex- 
pected soon to return after a prolonged absence. He 
coldly plans to murder Alberti that he may succeed to 
the dukedom with its financial resources. Ludovico, a 
friend of the duke, suspects some treacherous design and by 
following Montaldi is able to prevent the assassination. 
Julian is arrested and while he is in jail awaiting the 
trial, is offered large bribes by Montaldi to confess the 
assault ; but Ludovico sends word to call upon him in 
case of great extremity. 

The judge's chair and desk should be so placed that 
Montaldi's right hand in a glove may be very evident 
to the audience. There should be a group of peasants 
in which is Ludovico at the back of the stage watching 
the trial, 

130 



THE PEASANT BOYS VINDICATION. 131 

Enter Guards, conducting Julian — all the characters fol- 
low, and a crowd of vassals — Alberti advances to the 
judgment seat. 

Alberti. — My people ! — the cause of your present as- 
semblage too well is known to you. You come to witness 
the dispensations of an awful but impartial justice ; — either 
to rejoice in the acquittal of innocence or to approve the 
conviction of guilt. Personal feelings forbid me to assume 
this seat myself ; yet fear not but that it will be filled by 
nobleness and honor ; — to Montaldi only, I resign it. 

Julian {aside) . — He my judge ! then I am lost indeed. 

Alberti. — Ascend the seat,my friend, and decide from it as 
your own virtuous conscience shall direct. This only will I 
say : should the scales of accusation and defence poise 
doubtfully, let mercy touch them with her downy hand and 
turn the balance on the gentler side. 

Montaldi {ascending the seat). — Your will and honor are 
my only governors ! {Bows.) Julian ! stand forth ! you 
are charged with a most foul and horrible attempt upon 
the life of my noble kinsman — the implements of murder 
have been found in your possession, and many powerful 
circumstances combine to fix the guilt upon you. What 
have you to urge in vindication? 

Julian. — On the evening of yesterday, I crossed the 
mountain to the monastery of St. Bertrand ; my errand 
thither finished, I returned directly to the valley. Rosalie 
saw me enter the cottage — soon afterwards a strange out- 
cry recalled me to the door • a mantle spread before the 
threshold caught my eye; I raised it, and discovered a 
mask within it. The mantle was newly stained with blood ! 
consternation seized upon my soul — the next minute I was 
surrounded by guards, and accused of murder. They pro- 
duced a weapon I had lost. I had not power to explain the 



I32 THE PEASANT BOYS VINDICATION. 

truth. I was dragged to the dungeons of the castle. I may 
become the victim of circumstance, but I never have been 
the slave of crime ! 

Montaldi (smiling ironically). — Plausibly urged ; have 
you no more to offer? 

Julian. — Truth needs not many words — 1 have spoken ! 

Montaldi. — Yet bethink yourself — dare you abide by this 
wild tale, and brave a sentence on no stronger plea? 

Julian. — Alas ! I have none else to offer. 

Montaldi. — You say, on the evening of yesterday, you 
visited the monastery of St. Bertrand. What was your 
business there? 

Julian (with hesitation). — With father Nicolo — to engage 
him to marry Rosalie and myself on the following morning. 

Montaldi. — A marriage too ! Well ! — at what time did 
you quit the monastery? 

Julian. — The bell for vesper-service had just ceased to 
toll. 

Montaldi. — By what path did you return to the valley? 

Julian. — Across the mountain. 

Montaldi. — Did you not pass through the wood of olives, 
where the dark deed was attempted? 

Julian (recollecting) . — The wood of olives? 

Montaldi. — Ha ! mark ! he hesitates — speak ! 

Julian (with resolution). — I did pass through the wood 
of olives. 

Montaldi. — Ay! and pursuit was close behind. Stefano, 
you seized the prisoner? 

Stefano. — I did. The bloody weapon bore his name ; 
the mask and mantle were in his hands, and he was shak- 
ing in every limb. 

Montaldi. — Enough ! heavens ! that villainy so mon- 
strous should inhabit such a tender youth ! Oh, wretched 



THE PEASANT BOY'S VINDICATION. 1 33 

youth, I warn you to confess. Sincerity can be your only 
claim to mercy. 

Julian. — I have spoken truth : yes, — Heaven knows that 
I have spoken truth ! 

Montaldi. — Then I must exercise my duty. Death is 
my sentence. 

Julian. — Hold ! — pronounce it not as yet. 

Montaldi. — If you have any further evidence, produce it. 

Julian {with despairing energy) . — I call on Ludovico. 
(Ludovico steps forward with alacrity — Montaldi i-ecoils 
with visible trepidation.) 

Ludovico. — I am here ! 

Montaldi. — And what can he unfold ! only repeat that 
which we already know. I will not hear him — the evidence 
is perfect 

Alberti (rising with warmth). — Hold! Montaldi, Ludo- 
vico must be heard ; to the ear of justice, the lightest sylla- 
ble of proof is precious. 

Montaldi {confused). — I stand rebuked. Well, Ludo- 
vico, depose your evidence. 

Ludovico. — Mine was the fortunate arm to rescue the 
duke. I fought with the assassin, and drove him beyond 
the trees into the open lawn. I there distinctly marked his 
figure, and from the difference in the height alone, Julian 
cannot be the person. 

Montaldi. — This is no proof — the eye might easily be 
deceived. I cannot withhold my sentence longer. 

Ludovico. — I have further matter to advance. Just be- 
fore the ruffian fled, he received a wound across his right 
hand ; the moonlight showed me that the cut was deep and 
dangerous. Julian's fingers bear no such mark. 

Montaldi {evincing great emotion and involuntarily draw- 
ing his glove closer over his hand) . — A wound — mere fable — 

Ludovico. — Nay, more — the same blow struck from off 



134 ^HE PEASANT BOY'S VINDICATION. 

one of the assassin's fingers, a jewel ; it glittered as it fell ; 
I snatched it from the grass — I now produce it — 'tis here — 
a ring — an amethyst set with brilliants ! 

Alberti {rising hastily^). — What say you? an amethyst 
set with brilliants ! even such I gave Montaldi. Let me 
view it. — (As Ludovico advances to present the ring to the 
duke, Montaldi rushes with frantic impetuosity between, and 
attempts to seize it.) 

Montaldi — Slave ! resign the ring ! 

Ludovico. — I will yield my life sooner ! 

Montaldi. — Wretch ! I will rend thy frame to atoms ! 
( They struggle with violence, Montaldi snatches at the ring, 
Ludovico catches his hand and tears off the glove — the 
wound appears.) 

Ludovico. — Murder is unmasked — the bloody mark is 
here! Montaldi is the assassin. {All rush forumrd in aston- 
ishment — -Julian drops upon his knee in ??iute thanksgiving.) 

Montaldi. — Shame ! madness ! hell ! 

Alberti. — Eternal Providence ! Montaldi a murderer ! 

Montaldi. — Ay ! accuse and curse ! Idiots ! Dupes ! I 
heed you not ! I can but die ! Triumph not, Alberti — I 
trample on thee still ! (He draws a poniard and attempts 
to dest?vy himself — the weapon is wrested from his hand by 
the guards.) 

Alberti. — Fiend ! thy power to sin is past. 

Montaldi (delirious with passion). — Ha! ha! ha! my 
brain scorches, and my veins run with fire ! disgraced, dis- 
honored ! oh ! madness ! I cannot bear it — save me — oh ! 
(He falls into the arms of attendants.) 

Alberti. — Wretched man ! bear him to his chamber — 
his punishment be hereafter. (They carry him off.) 

Julian. — Oh ! my heart is too full for words. 

Alberti. — Noble boy ! You shall have Rosalio, and we 
will all attend the ceremony. — CURTAIN. 



THE BARON AND THE JEW. 



Adapted from the novel, " Ivanhoe," by Sir Walter Scott. 



CHARACTERS. 



Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, a large, cruel old English 
baron. 

Isaac of York, a Jew in the dungeon of the baron. 

Two Saracens, servants of the baron. 

Situation. — The Jew, his daughter and many others of a 
company, have just been captured and carried within 
the castle, where Front-de-Bceuf seizes the opportu- 
nity to extract money from the Jew by means of tortur- 
ing irons. The appearance of another party without 
the castle saves the Jew from torture. 

The Baron carries a poniard at his belt and a bunch 
of rusty old keys on his right side. The Jew is crouch- 
ing in the corner of the dungeon. Enter the Baron 
with several slaves, deliberately locks and double locks 
the door, very slowly approaches Isaac, who stares at 
him in perfect terror. 

Isaac. — So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers of 
our people assist me. I have not the means of satisfying 
your demand. 

Baron. — Seize him, and strip him, slaves, and let the 
fathers of his race assist him if they can.* (The servants 

135 



136 THE BARON AND THE JEW 

seize Isaac, raise him from the floor and glare at him with 
cunning ferocity. ) 

Isaac (after looking at the baron and the servants) .— 
I will pay the thousand pounds of silver — that is, with the 
help of my brethren ; for I must beg as a mendicant at the 
dooi of our synagogue ere I make up so unheard of a sum. 
When and where must it be delivered? 

Baron. — Here must it be delivered — weighed and told 
down on this very dungeon floor. Thinkest thou I will 
part with thee until thy ransom is secure? 

Isaac. — And what is to be my surety that I shall be at 
liberty after this ransom is paid? 

Baron. — The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-brok- 
ing slave ; the faith of a Norman nobleman, more pure than 
the gold and silver of thee and all thy tribe. 

Isaac. — I crave pardon, noble lord, but wherefore should 
I rely wholly on the word of one who will trust nothing to 
mine ? 

Baron. — Because thou canst not help it, Jew. Wert thou 
now in thy treasure-chamber at York, and were I craving a 
loan of thy shekels it would be thine to dictate. This is 
my treasure-chamber. Here I have thee at advantage, nor 
will I deign to repeat the terms on which I grant thee 
liberty. When shall I have the shekels, Isaac? 

Isaac. — Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York with 
your safe conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and 
horse can return, the treasure (groans') — the treasure shall 
be told down on this very floor. 

Baron. — Thy daughter ! by heavens, Isaac, I would I had 
known of this. I gave yonder black-browed maiden to 
Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert. 

Isaac (yells so that servants loose their hold. He then 
throws himself down and clasps the knees of the baron) . — 



THE BARON AND THE JEW. 1 37 

Take all that you have asked, sir knight, — take ten times 
more — reduce me to ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt, but 
spare my daughter, deliver her in safety and honor. Will 
you reduce a father to wish that his only living child were 
laid beside her dead mother, in the tomb of our fathers? 

Baron. — I would that I had known of this before. I 
thought your race had loved nothing save their money-bags. 

Isaac {eagerly) . — Think not so vilely of us, Jews though 
we be. The hunted fox, the tortured wild-cat loves its 
young — the despised and persecuted race of Abraham love 
their children. 

Baron. — Be it so, I will believe it in future, Isaac, for 
thy very sake — but it aids us not now, I cannot help what 
has happened, or what is to follow ; my word is passed to 
my comrade in arms, nor would I break it for ten Jews and 
Jewesses to boot. Besides, why shouldst thou think evil 
is to come to the girl, even if she became Bois Guilbert's 
booty ? 

Isaac. — There will, there must ! {He wrings his hands 
in agony.) When. did templars breathe aught but cruelty to 
men and dishonor to women? 

Baron. — Dog of an infidel, blaspheme not the Holy 
Order of the Temple of Zion, but take thought instead to 
pay me the ransom thou hast promised or woe betide thy 
Jewish throat ! 

Isaac {with g?-eat passion). — Robber and villain ! I will 
pay thee nothing — not one silver penny will I pay thee, 
unless my daughter is delivered to me in safety and honor ! 

Baron {sternly). — Art thou in thy senses, Israelite? Has 
thy flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and scald- 
ing oil ? 

Isaac {desperately). — I care not. Do thy worst. My 
daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand 



138 THE BARON AND THE JEW. 

times than those limbs which thy cruelty threatens. No 
silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it molten down 
thy avaricious throat — no, not a silver penny will I give 
thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep damna- 
tion thy whole life has merited. Take my life if thou wilt, 
and say the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to dis- 
appoint the Christian. 

Baron. — We shall see that; for by the blessed rood, 
uhich is the abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt 
feel the extremities of fire and steel ! Strip him, slaves, and 
chain him down upon the bars. ( The servants seize Isaac 
and have him partially stripped, when the sound of a bugle 
twice without and voices calling "Sir Reginald Front-de- 
Boeuf" stop proceedings. The baron makes a sign to the 
servants and goes out followed by the servants and Isaac 
who is putting on his coat.) 



IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Doctor Aiken, a prosperous country physician, wise and 



Josephine Barton, an actress with painted face, arid abrupt 
manners. 

Situation. — Doctor Aiken has been in attendance on a poor 
woman in great distress. Her sole companion is an 
actress known as Josephine Barton, who cares for her 
with the utmost devotion. He is impressed with the 
sincere disinterestedness of the actress and discloses his 
own affection for her. She proves to be his lo?ig tost 
wife. 

The scene takes place in a poor lodging in the country. 
There is a fireplace at the side and a light in the back 
part of the room. 

Actress is sitting by a table in the front of the platform. 
Doctor enters softly from an inner room and closes the 
door carefully. 
Josephine. — Oh, there you are, doctor. How is she 
to-day ? 

Doctor. — Better, thanks to you. 
Josephine. — Oh dear no ! I've done nothing. 
Doctor. — You have nursed her until you are ill and worn 
out yourself. May I feel your pulse? 
Josephine. — No. 

139 



140 IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 

Doctor. — You think you are all right? 

Josephine. — I know I am. 

Doctor. — May I stay and talk to you a little? 

Josephine. — If you like. 

Doctor. — You have been here a month. 

Josephine. — Yes, luckily for Lil, or she would have lost 
her engagement. 

Doctor. — And her nurse too. 

Josephine. — How do you know? I might have gone on 
with the company and left her. 

Doctor. — Might you? 

Josephine. — Don't think me a saint ! 

Doctor. — I haven't yet put you in that light. I have 
only seen a very good woman. 

Josephine {putting up her hand) . — Stop ! Talk of 
something else. Now, you would never think, would you, 
that I was playing last night — to look at me, I mean? 

Doctor {giving her an indifferent look) . — Well, no. 

Josephine. — Make-up, sir. It's a splendid thing to make 
up our characters, too, in real life, so that you sha'n't detect 
us. Now you think I'm good? 

Doctor. — I think nothing of the kind. 

Josephine (disconcerted). — Good gracious ! Do you 
think I'm bad? 

Doctor {smiling). — I have already told you that your 
devotion to your friend has won my most honest admira- 
tion. 

Josephine. — Oh 1 Well, that's put on. It pays. She 
will nurse me when I am ill, won't she? {Silence for a 
moment.) Doctor, don't believe in me. 

Doctor. — I can't help it. 

Josephine. — Why I am a mass of deceit. What color 
would you call my hair? 



IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 141 

Doctor. — Golden — a golden brown. 

Josephine. — I knew it. My hair is really black, ( he 
starts) dyed, sir, as we dye our very natures, lest you should 
discover the color of our sins. 

Doctor {as if recollecting something amazing). — Black ? 

Josephine. — Of course ! Cleverly managed, that's all. 
It makes a vast difference to a face. Once when we were 
very poor 



Doctor {astonished). — We ! That is, yourself and your 
friend. 

Josephine. — No ! I was married — I meant the child. It 
died. 

Doctor. — I was married too. 

Josephine. — Were you? Is she dead? 

Doctor {quietly). — No ! She ran away. She was very 
young and giddy, and I was grave and stern, and she tired 
of me. That is all. 

Josephine. — And you have hated women from that 
moment, of course. 

Doctor. — I lost my faith in them. 

Josephine. — Will it never return? 

Doctor {with warmth). — It has returned. 

Josephine. — What nonsense! Don't let it! Yet we 
are, after all, much what men make us. I held my real 
nature hidden for two years at the pleasure of a man, and 
it broke free at last. I was treated like a child just as I 
was struggling to be a woman, and my best impulses were 
laughed at, and kept down. 

Doctor. — And so you leave to-morrow? 

Josephine. — Yes. 

Doctor {with concern) . — To continue to lead this life ? 

Josephine. — Why not? It is no less true for seeming 
false. I remember when my baby died I had to play just 



I4 2 IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 

the same, and in the piece I had to cry, and I did. And 
a woman I knew in the audience told me I was a fool to 
put glycerine on my lashes to look like tears, because it 
ruined my make-up. That's life ! Give men and women 
the real article and they think they see through it, and 
doubt its truth. Give them paste and paint, and they like 
it, and believe it true, and know better than the owner of 
it. People will persist in being too clever ; but, after all, 
they only cheat themselves. 

Doctor (smiling). — You are quite a philosopher. 

Josephine. — I am a woman who has suffered — perhaps 
that's the same thing. 

Doctor. — You were not educated for the stage? 

Josephine {bitterly). — No ; I was educated for a man. 

Doctor. — You mean 

Josephine. — I mean I was very young when I married, 
and he was clever, and wished to mould me after his own 
pattern. I chose to pretend this was impossible ; but my 
nature grew all the same. Let a man beware when he 
crushes ambition and interest in a woman, it will live in 
spite of him, and come to the surface some time. Now, 
your wife 

Doctor. — Was young and foolish — never sinful — that is 
all. 

Josephine. — And you were never selfish enough to wish 
her sole pride to be in you, her sole interest in your in- 
terests, her sole knowledge, the knowledge you instilled 
into her giddy brain ? 

Doctor. — I hope not. 

Josephine. — You were never jealous of her mind, as you 
were jealous of her favor, of her love for art and literature — 
a blind love, for she knew little of either — because you 
could not spare time to instruct her in either? 



IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 1 43 

Doctor. — Again — I hope not. 

Josephine. — Then you were. We never hope about a 
certainty. 

Doctor. — If she had been a woman — well, like you — all 
might have been different. 

Josephine. — Nonsense ! You have seen one side of my 
character, that is all. Men are so quick to imagine the 
surface turned towards them is the only one we women 
own. 

Doctor. — I saw you tending your sick friend. I saw 
your patience and love for her. I see you slaving at your 
profession with no one to help and encourage you, leading 
a life that must be often uncongenial. I want to know 
little more of you than that. 

Josephine. — False ! False ! Everything's false. There 
is nothing real about me. Now, my age ? 

Doctor {smiling) . — You are not very old. 

Josephine. — My back is to the light. Put out your hand 
and touch my cheek. {He does it.) Why, how your hand 
trembles ! Covered with white stuff, of course. Wrinkles 
all hidden. I told you about my hair. 

Doctor. — I don't care. I — I like the woman I know. 
The woman you have been since I first met you — when 
they carried your friend home ill from the theatre, and 
then sent for me. If you are false, I am afraid I love 
falseness. I am foolish enough to have got so far that 
even defamation of yourself from your own lips could not 
harm you. Yet I am glad after all, that you are going ; 
for, as I told you, I have a wife somewhere, and even to 
love you as I love you, is a sin. 

Josephine {rising and walking away) . — You love me. 

Doctor {passionately). — As I never knew one could 
love. I even love this poor, pretty, tortured hair, and 



144 IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 

these dear tired eyes. I love you painted, or old, laughing 
or in tears. I seem to have crept out of the cold and 
found your heart as it really is. Don't try to hide it from 
me. The glimpses I have had of it have been paradise. 

Josephine. — Her hair — your wife's hair — was black. 

Doctor. — Who told you that? 

Josephine. — The way you looked when I said what 
mine had been. Try and imagine me with black hair. 

Doctor. — I can't. 

Josephine. — And so you love this actress? 

Doctor. — And would marry her if 

Josephine. — If she were your wife. 

Doctor {starting in alarm). — What do you mean? 

Josephine. — Look at me well. {He gazes at her intensely 
for a moment or two. Then she lays her hand tenderly on 
his arm.) Our little baby died, dear. ( He embraces her 
and they stand gazing at each other as the curtain falls.) 



CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Claudius, a Roman in exile, with a keen, cruel face and un- 
kempt appearance, and with a bent and shrivelled form. 

Philo, a Christian, with noble gentle face and strong athletic 
body. 

Situation. — Claudius as a judge in Rome condemned Philo 
and all his fajnily to the slaughter of the arena. But 
Philo by his immense strength slew the lio?i and then 
through Pompilius Taurus effected his escape. His 
father and the rest of his family were killed. In the 
wilderness Philo has wandered, has built himself a 
hut, and has supported a family. Claudius, banished 
from Rome, a homeless, hopeless old man, with only 
cruelties in his past life to contemplate, meets Philo, 
who at first thinks only of vefigeance ; but when 
Claudius appeals to his mercy as a Christian he re- 
lents, takes him home and ministers to him. 

The costumes should be the Roman dress of about 
the time of Nero. The scenery represents a thick forest. 

Claudius enters, looking about in despair. 
Claudius. — Alone, in this impenetrable forest ! 
No token of a human habitation, 

Look where I may ! My voice is hoarse with shouting. 
No answer comes, save from some startled bird 
Or creeping thing of prey. ( Calls.). Ho ! Hear me ! 
Ho! 

US 



I46 CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 

Vain effort I — Hark ! The crackling of a bough ! 
A human footstep ! — Yes ! Relief is nigh ! 

Philo enters. 
O, welcome, stranger, whosoe'er thou art ! 
For I am lost in these bewildering thickets. 
Most timely is thy coming. 

Philo. — And who art thou? 

Claudius. — A Roman ; once in power ; now an exile — 
A wretched outcast, plundered and forsaken ; 
Compelled to seek this rude and dangerous shelter. 

Philo. — If thou art wretched and an exile, welcome ! 
{Gives his hand.) 

Claudius. — Thou shalt not find me poor in gratitude, 
Though otherwise a beggar. Is there not 
Some place of refuge near us? 

Philo. — On the border 
Of this thick wood, I with my wife and children, 
Dwell in a place I will not call a house, 
But where at least life's poor necessities 
Of food and shelter may be found. The little 
We have to share, thou shalt be welcome to. 

Claudius. — How happens it that thou, a man whose 
speech 
Proclaims thou'rt not a mere clod-turning peasant, 
Canst in a wild like this content thyself, 
Far from the guardianship and pomp of Rome ? 

Philo. — The guardianship of Rome ! The guardian- 
ship ! 
Great cause have I of gratitude for that ! 
For to Rome's fatal guardianship I owe 
The massacre of kindred and of friends ; 
Of father, mother, brothers, butchered—butchered 
All in cold blood ! And oh ! for what? 



CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 147 

Claudius. — How? Butchered? 
By Rome's authority? A family 
Peaceable and obedient to the laws, 
And guiltless — butchered by authority? 
O, when and where? 

Philo. — Ten years ago — in Rome ! 
{Aside) Yes it is he ! none other. 
{Aloud) O last of all shouldst thou be ignorant ! 

Claudius. — Butchered by whom? 

Philo. — By thee ! by thee ! Thou art the man ! thou, 
Claudius ! 
The unjust judge, the craven magistrate, 
Creature of Nero, purveyor of his brutal, 
His fiendish cruelties ! Thou art the man ! 
For what — for what was all that wealth of blood, 
Of pure and innocent blood, poured out like water? 
Because it ran in Christian veins ! 

Claudius. — Thou ravest ! 
My hands were never stained with Christian blood. 
(Agitated) You do mistake me for some other man. 
I will depart. {Going.) 

Philo. — Stay ! One lie more or less 
Cannot be much to thee. Thy cowering glance, 
Thy trembling knees, belie thy faltering words. 
Let me refresh thy memory a little. 
Dost thou remember that eventfui day, 
In the great amphitheatre, when first 
Thou wert informed, the famous Libyan lion, 
The emperor's favorite, that dreadful beast 
Which thou hadst ordered out to tear in pieces 
A white-haired man, Servetus Cincinnatus, 
(My father !) — had been slain ? 
Dost thou recall thy rage against the slayer? 



148 CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 

Thou dost ! / slew the beast ! — Vain all disguise ! 

Claudius. — How — how didst thou escape? 

Philo. — Ah, ha ! Thy words, — 
Thy very words betray thee ! Even now, 
If fear would et thee, thou wouldst plunge thy dagger 
Here in my heart. But how did I escape? 
I'll tell thee how. The man thou didst most trust 
Became a Christian. 

Claudius. — He ! Pompilius Taurus 
Oh, had I known it then ! 

Philo. — Poor, baffled hound ! 
Dost thou regret, even in retrospection, 
The relish of a disappointed vengeance? 
Why do thy fingers work so? Ah ! thou wouldst, 
But durst not ! What are thy limbs and sinews 
Compared with these that have been trained and tested 
In wrestling with wild nature for my food, 
With the fierce bear for life, or with the gale 
Upon the lake, for safety? 

Claudius. — Do not abuse thy power ! Forgive — forgive 
me ! 

Philo. — Forgive thee? Oh ! Have I not often revelled 
In the anticipation of a moment 

Like this now present — when I could have thee thus — 
With no one by — when I could grasp thee thus — {Grasps him.) 
Thus — thus by the throat — and hiss into thy ear, 
Remember old— Serve tus ! 

Claudius. — Mercy ! 

Philo. — Mercy? 
Ay ! even such mercy as thou didst show, abhorred one, 
Show to that gray-haired man, his kneeling wife, 
And his imploring children ! 
Thy only answer to their prayer was death I 



CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 1 49 

Not a swift, easy death, but one of torture, — 

Of horror, — in the amphitheatre, — 

Torn by wild beasts ! Dost thou dare plead for mercy? 

Claudius {sinking on his knees). — As thou'rt a man, 
be merciful ! 

Philo. — That plea 
Will not avail. 

Claudius. — Ah ! then, as thou'rt a Christian ! (A pause, 
during which Philo gently and gradually releases his 
hold and Claudius rises.) 

Philo. — And dost thou venture to pronounce that name, 
The sacred name, by thee so spurned and hated? 
I thank thee for it, Claudius ! Ay, I thank thee. 
Thou hast recalled me to my better self. 
Bloody oppressor, diligent murderer, 
And persecutor of all Christian men, 
As thou hast been, — with every hair of thy head 
Steeped in my family's blood, — still, do not fear ! 
Thou 'rt safe. 

Claudius. — Thanks! thanks! (Going.) 

Philo. — Why, whither wouldst thou go ? 

Claudius. — To find a shelter for the night. 

Philo. — To perish ! 
What with the hungry wolf, the inclement air, 
Slender thy chance of life ! 

Here ! Come with me, and thou shalt have a bed 
In my poor hut, with food, and warmth, and safety. 
Wilt thou not trust me? 

Claudius. — Oh, thy wrongs have been 
Too deadly for forgiveness ! 

Philo. — Knowest thou not, 
The Christian, z/a Christian, ??iust forgive, 
As he would be forgiven by the Father? 



I50 CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 

Claudius. — But here forgiveness fails. I blame thee not. 
For now, in this majestic solitude, 
My crimes start up between me and all hope, 
I know it is not in the heart of man, 
Where such wrongs cry aloud, to cast out vengeance. 

Philo. — " Vengeance is mine ! I will repay, saith the 
Lord ! " 
I do forgive thee Claudius. 

The Christian's act shall tell thee what his faith is. 
Not the dear child who hangs about my neck 
And calls me father shall more tenderly 
Be cared for and protected from all danger 
Than thou, if thou wilt come and be my guest. 
Dost thou believe me? 

Claudius {covering his face, in agony). — Ay ! I cannot 
help it. 
The creed must be divine that works this change. 
O that I could blot out the hateful past ! 
O that I might cast off that weight of sin ! 

Philo. — This is no fitful mood. 
'Tis Christ's own hand has led thee here, my brother ; 
And from that hand, with reverence I accept thee. ( Tak- 
ing his hand.) 
Do not despair ! There's balm for thee in Gilead. 
Hereafter, should I waver in my kindness, 
Utter again that plea : " As thou'rt a Christian ! " {They 
go out.) 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 



CHARACTERS. 

Colonel Mason, an old man, follower of Cromwell, 
Juliet Mason, his daughter. 
Ernest Montague, a young follower of the King. 
Michael, a servant to Colonel Mason. 

Situation. — Ernest Montague has been banished from Eng- 
land, and his property has been seized by the Round- 
heads of Cromwell and given to Mason. For various 
reasons Montague secretly visits England and takes 
occasion to revisit the scenes of his youth. Here he 7neets 
and falls in love with Juliet. She does not know that 
he formerly owned her home. 

The scene should represe?it an old-fashioned garden 
of the middle of the seventeenth century. On one side 
is a strong door or gate to the garden. The wall is 
high. Itwas the fashion then to say " thou " and " thee" 
The costumes should be old-fashioned, and if possible 
of the time of the Roundheads and Cavaliers. 

Scene I. 

Juliet Mason, alone. She has a sprig of lavender in her 

hand. 

Juliet. — Oh, Ernest Montague. — He promised to meet 

me here by eight, and the great clock in the hall wanted 

but five minutes full half an hour ago. It must be half an 

151 



152 A WIFE AND A HOME. 

hour. I have been pacing up and down this walk from the 
yew-hedge to the fountain, twenty times at least, besides 
going twice to the little door in the garden wall, to be sure 
that it was unbolted. It can't be a minute less than half an 
hour. He had as well stay now in his hiding place at the 
village, for I'll never speak to him again. Never ! and yet, 
poor fellow. — No ! I'll never speak to him again ! — {Ernest 
Montague comes in stealthily. He looks round, then hastens 
to her and takes her hand. She turns away.) So, Sir 
Ernest. 

Ernest. — So, my pretty Miss Juliet? Why turn away so 
angrily? What fault have I committed, I pray thee? 

Juliet. — Fault? None. 

Ernest. — Nay, nay, my little Venus of the Puritans, my 
princess of all Precisions, if thou be offended, tell me so. 

Juliet. — Offended, forsooth ! People are never offended 
with people they don't care about. — Offended ! 

Ernest. — And is it because some people don't care for 
other people, that they put their pretty selves into such 
pretty tantrums — eh, Miss Juliet? I am after time, sweet — 
but 

Juliet. — After time ! I have been here this half- hour ! 
— and my father fast asleep in the hall ! After time ! If 
thou had'st cared for me — But men are all alike. There 
hath not been a true lover in the world since the days of 
Amadis — and that was but a false legend. After time ! — 
Why, if thou hadst cared for me only as much as I care 
for this sprig of lavender, thou wouldst have been waiting 
for me, before the chimes had rung seven. Just think of 
the time thou hast lost. — Now thou may'st go thy ways — 
Leave me, sir ! {She tries to withdraw her hand.) 

Ernest. — Nay, mine own sweet love, do not offer to 
snatch thy hand away. I cannot part with thee, Juliet, 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 1 53 

though thou shouldst flutter like a new caught dove. I 
must speak with thee. I have that to say which must be 
heard. 

Juliet. — Well ! 

Ernest. — I have been dogged all day by a canting Puri- 
tan, a follower, as I take it, of thy godly father. 

Juliet. — Jeer not my father, Ernest, although he be a 
roundhead and thou a cavalier. He is a brave man and a 
good. 

Ernest. — He is thy father, and therefore sacred to me. 
Where did'st thou say he is now? 

Juliet. — I left him in the hall, just settling quietly to an 
after-supper nap. — Why dost thou ask? 

Ernest. — I have been watched all day by one whom I 
suspect to be a spy ; and I fear me, that in spite of my 
disguise, my false name, and my humble lodging, I am 
discovered. 

Juliet. — Discovered in thy visits here? Discovered as 
my friend? 

Ernest. — No, no, I trust not so. Therefore I delayed 
to come to thee till I could shake off my unwelcome 
follower. Not discovered as thy lover, thy friend, if such 
name better please thee — but as the cavalier and malignant 
(for so their phrase runs) Ernest Montague. 

Juliet. — But granting that were true, what harm hast 
thou done? What hast thou to fear? 

Ernest. — Small harm, dear Juliet, and yet in these bad 
days small harm may cause great fear. I have borne arms 
for the king ; I have never acknowledged the Protector; 
and moreover, I am the rightful owner of this same estate 
and mansion of Montague Hall, its parks, manors, and 
dependencies, bestowed by the sequestrators on thy father, 
Colonel Mason. Seest thou no fear there, fair Juliet? 



154 A WIFE AND A HOME. 

Juliet. — Alas ! alas ! 

Ernest. — Then my deceased father, stout old Sir William, 
has meddled in every plot and rising in the country, from 
the first year of the Rebellion to this, as I well trust, the 
last of the usurpation, so that the very name sounds like a 
fire-brand. 'Twould be held a fair service to the state, 
Juliet, to shoot thy poor friend ; and yet I promise thee, 
albeit a loyal subject to king Charles, I am hardly fool 
enough to wage war in my own single person against Oliver, 
whom a mightier conqueror than himself will speedily over- 
throw. 

Juliet. — A mightier conqueror ! 

Ernest. — Even the great tyrant death — he who levels 
the mighty and the low — Ernest Montague and Oliver 
Cromwell ! 

Juliet. — Death ! Art thou then in such peril ? And dost 
thou loiter here ? I beseech thee away ! away this moment ! 
what detains thee? 

Ernest. — That which brought me here — thyself. Being 
in England I came hither, more weeks ago than I care to 
think of, to look on my old birth-place, my old home. I 
saw thee, Juliet, and ever since I have felt that these walls 
are a thousand-fold more precious to me as thy home, as 
thy inheritance, than ever they could have been as mine. 
I love thee, Juliet. 

Juliet. — Oh, go ! go ! go ! To talk of love whilst thou 
art in such danger ! 

Ernest. — I love thee, my own Juliet. 

Juliet. — Go ! 

Ernest. — Wilt thou go with me ? I am not rich — I have 
no fair mansion to take thee to ; but a soldier's arm, and a 
true heart, Juliet! Wilt thou go with me, sweet one? I'll 
bring horses to the little garden door. The moon will be 



A WIFE AND A HOME. I$5 

up at twelve (She sobs in his arms.) — Speak, dearest ! And 
yet this trembling hand speaks for thee. Wilt thou go with 
me and be my wedded wife ? 

Juliet. I will. (He goes out as he came in, and she 

goes out on opposite side, looking and motioning to him.) 

Scene II. 

Ernest enters from the side door. 
Ernest. — Juliet ! Not yet arrived ! Surely she cannot 
have changed her purpose ? No, no ! it were treason 
against true love but to suspect her of wavering — she lingers 
from maiden modesty, from maiden fear, from natural 
affection, from all that man worships in woman. But if 
she knew the cause I have to dread every delay ! 

Juliet ente?-s from the house. 
Juliet ! sweetest — how breathless thou art ! Thou canst 
hardly stand ! Rest thee on this seat a moment, my Juliet. 
And yet delay — hath aught befallen to affright thee? Sit 
here, dearest ! . What hath startled thee ? 

Juliet. — I know not. And yet — 

Ernest. — How thou tremblest still ! And what 

Juliet. — As I passed the gallery. — Only feel how my 
heart nutters, Ernest ! 

Ernest. — Blessings on that dear heart ! Calm thee, 
sweetest. — What of the gallery? 

Juliet. — As I passed, methought I heard voices. 

Ernest. — Indeed ! And I too have missed the detected 
spy who hath been all day dogging my steps. Can he — 
but no ! All is quiet in the house. Look, Juliet ! All 
dark and silent. No light save the moonbeams dancing on 
the window panes with a cold pale brightness. No sound 
save the song of the nightingale — dost thou not hear it? 



I $6 A WIFE AND A HOME. 

It seems to come from the tall shrubbery sweet-briar, which 
sends its fragrant breath in at yonder casement. 

Juliet. — That is my father's chamber — my dear, dear fa- 
ther ! Oh, when he shall awake and find his Juliet gone, 
little will the breath of the sweet-briar, or the song of the 
nightingale comfort him then ! My dear, dear father ! 
He kissed me after prayers to-night, and laid his hand on 
my head and blessed me. He will never bless his poor 
child again. 

Ernest. — Come, sweetest ! The horses wait ; the hours 
wear on ; morning will soon be here. 

Juliet. — Oh, what a morning to my poor, poor father ! 
His Juliet, his only child, his beloved, his trusted ! Oh, 
Ernest, my father ! my father ! (She sobs on his shoulder.) 

Ernest. — Maiden, if thou lovest thy father better than 
me, remain with him. It is not yet too late. I love thee, 
Juliet, too well to steal thee away against thy will, too well 
to take thy hand without thy heart. The choice is still 
open to thee. Return to thy father's house, or wend with 
me. Weep not thus, dear one ; but decide, and quickly. 

Juliet. — Nay, I will go with thee, Ernest. Forgive these 
tears ! I'll go with thee to the end of the world. (A noise. 
They start.) 

Ernest. — Now then. What noise is that? 

Juliet. — Surely, surely the turning of a key. {They both 
jump to their feet in a/arm.) 

Ernest (he tries to open door). — Ay, the garden door is 
fastened ; the horses are led off. We are discovered. 

Juliet. — Is there no other way of escape ? 

Ernest. — None. The garden is walled round. Look 
at these walls, Juliet ; a squirrel could scarcely climb them. 
Through the house is the only chance ; and that 

Juliet. — Try the door again ; I do beseech thee, try. 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 157 

Push against it — I never knew it fastened other than by 
this iron bolt. Push manfully. (He struggles with door.) 

Ernest. — It is all in vain ; thou thyself heard' st the key 
turn ; and see how it resists my utmost strength. The door 
is surely fast. 

Juliet. — See ; the household is alarmed ! Look at the 
lights ! Venture not so near, dear Ernest. Conceal thee 
in the arbor till all is quiet. I will go meet them. 

Ernest. — Alone ? 

Juliet. — Why, what have I to fear? Hide thee behind 
the yew-hedge till the first search be past, and then 

Ernest. — Desert thee ! Hide me ! And I a Montague ! 
But be calmer, sweetest ! Thy father is too good a man 
to meditate aught unlawful. 'Twill be but some short re- 
straint, with thee for my warder. Calm thee, dearest. 
{They shrink back almost out of sight.) 

Enter Colonel Mason and a servant with an old-fashioned 
arquebuss. 

Colonel Mason. — Shoot ! Shoot instantly, Michael. 
{Michael fumbles with fuse.) Slay the robber ! Why dost 
thou not fire ? Be'st thou in league with him ? What dost 
thou fumble at ? 

Michael. — So please your worship, the wind hath extin- 
guished the touch-paper. (He holds up a bit of burnt 
paper.) 

Colonel Mason. — The wind hath extinguished thy wits, 
I trow, that thou couldst bring aught but that old arquebuss. 
Return for a steel weapon. (Michael goes out.) Meantime 
my sword — I see but one man, and surely a soldier of the 
Cause and Covenant, albeit aged, may well cope with a 
night-thief. Come on, young man. Be'st thou coward as 
well as robber? Defend thyself. 



158 A WIFE AND A HOME. 

Juliet. — Oh, father ! father ! {She rushes to him.) Wouldst 
thou do murder before thy daughter's eyes? 

Colonel Mason. — Cling not thus around me, maiden. 
What makest thou with that thief, that craven thief? 

Ernest. — Nay, tremble not, Juliet ; for thy sake I will 
endure even this contumely. — Put up your sword, sir, it is 
needless. I yield myself your prisoner. When I make 
myself known to Colonel Mason, I trust that he will retract 
an expression as unworthy of his character as of mine. 

Colonel Mason. — I do know thee. Thou art the foul 
malignant Ernest Montague ; the abettor of the plotting 
traitor Ormond : the outlawed son of the lawless cavalier 
who once owned this demesne. 

Ernest. — And knowing me for Ernest Montague couldst 
thou take me for a garden robber? Couldst thou grudge 
to the sometime heir of these old halls a parting glance of 
their venerable beauty? 

Colonel Mason. — Young man, wilt thou tell me, darest 
thou tell me, that it was to gaze on this old mansion that 
thou didst steal hither, like a thief in the night ? Ernest 
Montague, canst thou look at thy father's house and utter 
that falsehood ? Ye were a heathenish and blinded genera- 
tion, main props of tyranny and prelacy, a worldly and a 
darkling race, who knew not the truth ; — but yet, from your 
earliest ancestor to the last possessor of these walls, ye had 
amongst the false gods whom ye worshipped, one idol, 
called Honor. {The young man shakes his head.) Ernest 
Montague,I joy that thou hast yet enough of grace vouch- 
safed to thee to shrink from affirming that lie. 

Ernest. — But a robber ! a garden-thief ! 

Colonel Mason. — Ay, a robber ! I said, and I repeat, a 
robber, a thief, a despoiler. Hath the garden no fruit save 
its apricots and dewberries? Hath the house no treasure 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 159 

but its vessels of gold and silver? If ever thou art a father, 
and hast one hopeful and dutiful maiden, the joy of thine 
heart, and the apple of thine eye, (she sinks down and 
covers her face to hide het tears) . then thou wilt hold 
all robbery light, so that it leaves thee her, all robbers guilt- 
less save him who would steal thy child. Weep not thus, 
Juliet. And thou, young man, away. I joy that the old 
and useless gun defeated my angry purpose — that I slew 
not my enemy on his father's ground. Away with thee, 
young man ! Go study the parable that Nathan spake to 
David. I will not make thee prisoner in the house of thy 
fathers. Thank me not; but go. — (He turns away.) 

Juliet (rising). — Father, hear me ! 

Colonel Mason. — Within 1 To-morrow ! (He points 
to the house.) 

Juliet (failing on her knees.) — Nay, here and now. 
Thou hast pardoned him ; but thou hast not pardoned me. 

Colonel Mason. — I have forgiven thee — I do forgive 
thee. 

Juliet. — Thou knowest not half my sins ! I am the prime 
offender, the great and unrepenting culprit. I loved him, 
I do love him ; we are betrothed, and I will hold faithful to 
my vow ! Never shall another man wed Juliet Mason ! 
Oh, father, I knew not till this very hour how dear thy poor 
child was to thy heart — Canst thou break hers? 

Colonel Mason (tenderly.) — Juliet, this is a vain and 
simple fancy. 

Juliet. — Father, it is love — plead for us, Ernest. 

Ernest. — Alas ! I dare not. Thou art a rich heiress ; I 
am a poor exile. 

Juliet. — Out on such distinctions ! one word from my 
father ; one stroke of Cromwell's pen, and thou art an exile 
no longer. Plead for us, Ernest ! 



l6o A WIFE AND A HOME. 

Ernest. — Juliet, I dare not. Thy father is my benefac- 
tor ; he has given me life and liberty. Wouldst thou have 
me repay these gifts by bereaving him of his child ? 

Juliet. — We will not leave him. We will dwell together. 
Ernest, wilt thou not speak? {Silence.) 

Colonel Mason {looking long and searchingly at Mon- 
tague.) His honorable silence hath pleaded better for him 
than words. Ernest Montague, dost thou love this maid? 

Ernest. — Do I love her ! 

Colonel Mason. — I believe in good truth that thou dost. 
Take her then from the hand of her father. — There is room 
enough in yonder mansion for the heir and the heiress, the 
old possessor and the new. Take her, and Heaven bless ye, 
my children ! {lie goes out and they follow arm in arm.) 



AUREL1AN AND ZENOBIA. 



Adapted from " Zenobia," by William Ware. 



CHARACTERS. 

Aurelian, a dark, powerful man, courageous, generous, 

quick-tempered, — Emperor of Rome. 
Zenobia, tall, beautiful, and commanding in form and 

feature, — Queen of Palmyra. 

Antiochus, powerfully, but loosely built, dull, unprincipled, 

— betrayer of Queen. 
Sindarina, very dark, tall, slender, — an Indian princess, 

slave of Queen, accomplice of Antiochus. 

Julia, daughter of Zenobia. 

Cams, an officer of high rank in the Roman army. 

Officers, guards, attendants. 

Situation. — Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, has become so 
great in the East that Aurelian, Emperor of Rome, 
has demanded the relinquishing of all titles but that of 
Queen of Palmyra. She defies him. He sets out for 
the East, defeats her in two battles, and besieges 
Palmyra. As she is secretly going to ask aid of a 
neighboring nation, she is betrayed and led to the tent 
of Aurelian. There, the following interview takes 
place. 

161 



1 62 AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 

Aurelian, Carus, and two officers stand at the side of the 
platform, watching the slow approach of Zenobia, 
Julia and an attendant. 

Aurelian {evidently affected by the majestic bearing of 
Zenobia). — It is a happy day for Rome, (he salutes her 
courteously) that sees you, lately Queen of Palmyra and 
of the East, a captive in the tent of Aurelian. 

Zenobia (in a melancholy tone). — And a dark one for 
my afflicted country. 

Aurelian. — It might have been darker, had not the good 
providence of the gods delivered you into my hands. 

Zenobia. — The gods preside not over treachery. And it 
must have been by treason among those in whom I have 
placed my most familiar trust, that I am now where and 
what I am. It had been a nobler triumph to you, O Roman, 
and a lighter fall to me, had the field of battle decided the 
fate of my kingdom, and led me prisoner to your tent. 

Aurelian. — Doubtless it had been so ; yet was it for me 
to cast away what chance threw into my power? A war 
is now happily ended, which, had your mission succeeded, 
might yet have raged — and but to the mutual harm of two 
great nations. Yet it was a bold and sagacious device. A 
more determined, a better appointed or more desperate 
foe, I have never yet contended with. 

Zenobia. — It were strange indeed, if you met not with a 
determined foe, when life and liberty were to be defended. 
Had not treason, base and accursed treason, given me up 
like a chained slave to your power, yonder wails must have 
first been beaten piecemeal down by your engines, and 
buried me beneath their ruins, and famine cluched all whom 
the sword had spared, ere we had owned you master. 
What is life, when liberty and independence are gone? 

Aurelian. — But why, let me ask, were you moved to 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 1 63 

assert an independency of Rome ? How many peaceful 
and prosperous years have rolled on since Trajan and the 
Antonines, while you and Rome were at harmony. Why 
was this order disturbed? What madness ruled to turn 
you against the power of Rome? 

Zenobia. — The same madness that tells Aurelian he may 
yet possess the whole world, and sends him here into the 
far East to wage needless war with a woman — Ambition ! 
Yet had Aurelian always been upon the Roman throne, or 
one resembling him, it had perhaps been different. There 
then could have been naught but honor in any alliance that 
had bound together Rome and Palmyra. But while the 
thirty tyrants were fighting for the Roman crown, was I to 
sit still waiting humbly to become the passive prey of 
whosoever might please to call me his? By the immortal 
gods, not so ! I asserted my supremacy and made it felt. 
I came in and reduced the jarring elements of the Eastern 
provinces, and out of parts broken and sundered, and 
hostile, constructed a fair and well-proportioned whole. 
And when I had tasted the sweets of sovereign and despotic 
power — what they are, thou knowest — was I tamely to 
yield the whole at the word or threat even of Aurelian? It 
could not be. Sprung from a royal line, and so long upon 
a throne, it was superior force alone — divine or human — 
that should drag me from my right. Thou hast been but 
four years king, Aurelian, monarch of the great Roman 
world, yet wouldst thou not, but with painful unwillingness, 
descend and mingle with the common herd. For me, 
ceasing to reign, I would cease to live. 

Aurelian. — Thy speech shows thee well worthy to reign. 
It is no treason to Rome, Carus (he turns to his general} , 
to lament that the fates have cast down from a throne one 
who filled its seat so well. Hadst thou hearkened to my 



164 AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 

message thou mightest still, lady, have sat upon thy native 
seat. The crown of Palmyra might still have girt thy brow. 

Zenobia. — But not of the East. 

Aurelian. — I lament, great Queen, — for so I may call 
thee — that upon an ancient defender of our Roman honor, 
upon her who revenged Rome upon the insolent Persian, 
this heavy fate should fall. The debt of Rome to Zenobia 
is great, and shall yet in some sort at least be paid. Curses 
upon those who moved thee to this war. They have brought 
this calamity upon thee, Queen, not I nor thou. This is 
not a woman's war. 

Zenobia. — Rest assured, great prince, that the war was 
mine. I had indeed great advisers, Longinus, Gracchus, 
Zabdas, Otho. Their names are honored in Rome as well 
as here. They have been with me, but without lying or 
vanity, I may say I have been their head. 

Aurelian. — Be it so ; nevertheless, thy services shall be 
remembered. — But let us now to the affairs before us. The 
city has not surrendered — though thy captivity is known, 
the gates are still shut. A word from thee would open them. 

Zenobia ( indignantly) . — It is a word I cannot speak. 
Wouldst thou that I too should turn traitor? 

Aurelian. — It surely would not be that. It can avail 
naught to contend further — it can but end in a wider des- 
truction, both of your people and my soldiers. 

Zenobia. — Longinus, I may suppose is now supreme. 
Let the emperor address him and what is right will be 
done. 

Aurelian (he turns and converses a moment with his 
officers ) . — Within the walls thou hast sons. Is it not so ? 

Zenobia (quickly in alarm). — It is not they, nor either 
of them who have conspired against me ! 

Aurelian. — No — not quite so. Yet he who betrayed 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 1 65 

thee calls himself of thy family. Thy sons surely were not 

in league with him. — (Speaking in a louder tone) Soldiers, 

lead forth the great Antiochus and his slave. (The Queen 

starts at the name, Julia utters a faint cry.) 

Antiochus enters, followed by Sindarina, who stands for a 

moment with bowed head, then in great emotion rushes 

to the Queen, throws herself at her feet covering them 

with kisses. 

Zenobia (with deep sorrow) . — My poor Sindarina ! {Sin- 
darina 1 s sobs choke her is Iterance.) 

Aurelian (ster?ily) . — Bear her away, — bear her from the 
tent. (A guard seizes her and hurries away.') This (he 
turns to Zenobia) is thy kinsman, as he tells me — the 
Prince Antiochus? (Zenobia makes no reply.) He has done 
Rome a great service. (Antiochus straightens himself up.) 
He has the merit of ending a weary and disastrous war. It 
is a rare fortune to fall to any one. 'Tis a work to grow 
great upon. Yet, Prince, the work is not complete. The 
city yet holds out. If I am to reward thee with the sover- 
eign power, as thou sayest, thou must open the gates. Canst 
thou do it? 

Antiochus (eagerly). — Great Prince, it is provided for. 
Allow me but a few moments, and a place proper for it, 
and the gates I warrant shall swing quickly upon their 
hinges. 

Aurelian (ironically) . — Ah ! do you say so ? That is 
well. What, I pray, is the process? 

Antiochus. — At a signal which I shall make, noble Prince, 
and which has been agreed upon, every head of every one 
of the Queen's party rolls in the dust — Longinus, Gracchus, 
and his daughter, and a host more — their heads fall. The 
gates are then to be thrown open. 

Aurelian. — Noble Palmyrene, you have the thanks of 



1 66 AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 

all. Of the city then we are at length secure. For this, 
thou wouldst have the rule of it under Rome, wielding a 
sceptre in the name of the Roman senate, and paying 
tribute as a subject province? Is it not so? 

Antiochus. — It is. That is what I would have, and 
would do, most excellent Aurelian. 

Aurelian. — Who are thy associates in this? Are the 
Queen's sons of thy side and partners in this enterprise? 

Antiochus. — They are not privy to the design to deliver 
up to thy great power the Queen their mother ; but they 
are my friends, and most surely do I count upon their sup- 
port. As I shall return king of Palmyra, they will gladly 
share my power. 

Aurelian {in terrific tones). — But if friends of thine they 
are enemies of mine. They are seeds of future trouble. 
They may sprout up into kings also, to Rome's annoyance. 
They must be crushed. Dost thou understand me? 

Antiochus. — I do, great Prince. Leave them to me. I 
will do for them. But to say the truth they are too weak 
to disturb any — friends or enemies. 

Aurelian. — Escape not so. They must die. 

Antiochus {somewhat alarmed ') . — They shall, they shall ; 
soon as I am within the walls their heads shall be sent to thee. 

Aurelian. — That now is as I would have it. One thing 
more thou hast asked — that the fair slave who accompanies 
thee be spared to thee, to be thy Queen. 

Antiochus. — It was her desire — hers, noble Aurelian, not 
mine. 

Aurelian. — But didst thou not engage to her as much ? 

Antiochus. — Truly I did. But among princes such words 
are but politic ones : that is well understood. Kings marry 
for the state. I would be higher matched. {He looks sig- 
nificantly toward Julia.) Am I understood? {There is 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 1 67 

silence a moment.) The Princess Julia I would raise to 
the throne. (He seems to swell in importance.) 

Aurelian (turning away towards the Queen and then 
towards his officers and attendants.) — Do I understand 
thee? I understand thee to say that for the bestowmentof 
the favors and honors thou hast named, thou wilt do the 
things thou hast now specifically promised? Is it not so? 

Antiochus. — It is, gracious king. 

Aurelian. — Dost thou swear it? 

Antiochus. — I swear it by the great God of Light. 

Aurelian (His countenance becomes black withfury and con- 
tempt. Antiochus starts and turns pale). — Romans, pardon 
me for so abusing your ears ! An.d you, oar royal captives ! 
I knew not that such baseness lived — still less that it was 
here. — (Turning to Antiochus.) Thou foul stigma upon 
humanity ! Why opens not the earth under thee, but that it 
loathes and rejects thee ! Is a Roman like thee, dost thou 
think, to reward thy unheard of treacheries ? Thou knowest 
no more what a Roman is, than what truth and honor are. — 
Soldiers ! seize yonder miscreant, write traitor on his back, 
and spurn him forth the camp. His form and his soul 
both offend alike. Hence monster ! (Antiochus trembles 
all over, appeals to the Emperor s mercy, but a guard stops his 
mouth, and drags hi?n away. His shrieks are heard in the 
distance.) It was not for me to refuse what fate threw 
into my hands. Though I despise the traitorous informer, 
I could not shut my ear to the facts he revealed, without 
myself betraying the interests of Rome. But believe me, 
it was information I would willingly have spared. My 
infamy were as his, to have rewarded the traitor. Fear not, 
great Queen. I pledge the word of a Roman and an 
Emperor for thy safety. Thou are safe both from Roman 
and Palmyrene. 



1 68 AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 

Zenobia. — What I have but now been witness of, assures 
me that in the magnanimity of Aurelian I may securely 
rest. 

Aurelian. — Guards, conduct the Queen to the palace 
set apart for her. (He bows. Zenobia and Julia bow and 
go out followed by guard. Aurelian and officers then go out 
on other side.) 



Pieces for €w Occasion 

By Caroline B. LeRow 

Compiler of "A Well-Planned Course in Reading " 
Bound in cloth Price, $J.25 

The selections included in this volume are in harmony 
with the spirit of class room work, which demand brevity, 
simplicity, good sense and sound morality. This is the only 
compilation of the kind in which these matters are considered 
as of equal importance with elocutionary effect. Very few of 
the pieces are to be found in any other hook. That Miss 
LeRow has provided pieces for every occasion, the following 
summary bears evidence. The volume contains 

Pieces for Lincoln's Birthday 

Pieces for Flag Day 

Pieces for "Washington's Birthda^ 

Pieces for Easter 

Pieces for Arbor Day 

Pieces for Decoration Day 

Pieces for Graduating and Closing Days 

Pieces for Fourth of July 

Pieces for Thanksgiving Day 

Pieces for Christmas 

Pieces for New Years 

Concert Recitations 

Selections for Musical Accompaniment 

Pieces for Other Less Observed Occasions 
The observance of our poets' birthdays has become such 
a pleasant and profitable custom in our schools, that pieces 
have been provided for these anniversaries as well. Besides 
these selections for special occasions, there will be found a 
large number of recitations suitable for almost any occa- 
sion. 

You may be interested to know that we also publish 
Handy Pieces to Speak, price 50c. , Acme Declamation Book 
50c, Three-Minute Declamations for College Men $1.00, 
Three-Minute Readings for College Girls $1.00, Pieces for 
Prize Speaking Contests $1.25, New Dialogues and Plays 
{primary, intermediate and advanced) $1.50, Commencement 
Parts {valedictories, salutatories, essays, etc.) $1.50, Pros and 
Cons {both sides of live questions fully discussed) $1.50— any 
of which we shali be glad to send you on approval. 

HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers 
31-33-35 West J5th Street _ New York City 



Pieces for €wry Occasion 

By Caroline B, LeRow 

Compiler of " A Well- Planned Course in Reading" 
Bound in cloth Price, $1*25 



Miscellaneous. 



TITLE 

A Battle, 

After Vacation, 

A Good Name, 

Americanism, 

As Thy Day Thy Strength Shall Be, 

A Strange Experience, . 

A Swedish Poem, . 

At Graduating Time, 

A Turkish Tradition, 

Before Vicksburg, 

Beside the Railway Track, 

Commencement Day, 

Compromise of Principle, 

Employ Your Own Intellect, 

Failed 

Flattering Grandma, 

Forward, 

Setting the Right Start, 

Slimpses into Cloudland, 

How the Ransom Was Paid, 

" I Will Help You," 

Manhood, ... 

Means of Acquiring Distinction, 

Mind Your Business, 

National Progress, 

Only a Little, 

Only a Little Thing, 

Only in Dreams, 

Our Country, 

Some Old School Books, 

Sparrows, 

The Amen of the Rocks, 

The American Constitution, 

The Angel of Dawn, 

The Barbarous Chief, 

The Beautiful in Creation, 

The Coast-Guard, . 

The Daily Task, 

The Demon on the Roof. 



AUTHOR 

Charles Sumner, 



Joel Hawes, 
Hem-y Cabot Lodge, 

Josephine Pollard, 



W. B. Potter, . 
Henry Ward Beecher, 

Phillips Thompson, 



Susan Coolidge, 
Joseph Gilbert Holland, 
H. W. Longfellow, 

Wolstan Dixey, 
George K. Morris, 
Sydney Smith, 
Wolstan Dixey, 
William McKinlep. 
Bora Goodale, 
Mrs. M. P. Handy, 
Joseph Gilbert Holland, 
Epes Sargent, 



Adeline B. T. Whitney, 
Christian Gilbert, 
Alexander Hamilton, 
J. S. Cutler, 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 
Timothy Bwight, 
Emily Huntington Miller, 
Marianne Farringham, 
Josephine Pollard, 



Miscellaneous— Continued. 

TITLE AUTHOR 

The Drawbridge Keeper, . . . Henry Abbey, 
The Friend of My Heart, ... ... 

The Inquiry, Charles Mackay, 

The Light-house, ... 

The Little Grave, ... 

The Little Messenger of Love, . . ... 

The Monk's Vision ... 

The Old Stone Basin, .... Susan Coolidge, 

The People's Holidays, .... Marianne Farningham, 

The Permanence of Grant's Fame, . James G. Blaine, 
The Silver Bird's Nest, .... .... 

The Southern Soldier, .... Henry W. Grady, 

The Unconscious Greatness of Stonewall 

Jackson, Moses D. Hodges, D. D., 

The University the Training Camp of the 

Future, Henry W. Grady, 

Things to Remember .... 

True Heroism, .... 

True Liberty, F.W. Robertson, 

True Patriotism is Unselfish, . . George William Curtis, 

" Wash Dolly up Like That," . . Eleanor Kirk Ames, 

What of That? .... 

"What's the Lesson for To-day ? ' . .... 

When Grandpa Was a Little Boy, . Malcolm Douglas, 



Concert Recitations. 



Cavalry Song 

Songs of the Seasons, 

Song of the Steamer Engine, 

Summer Storm, 

The Cataract of Lodore, 

The Charge at Waterloo, 

The Child on the Judgment Seat, 

The Coming of Spring, 

The Death of Our Almanac, 

The Good Time Coming, 

The Sorrow of the Sea, 

The Two Glasses, . 

Two Epitaphs, 

Who Is It? .... 



Edmund C. Stedman, 
Meta E. B. Thome, 
C. B. LeRow, 
James Russell Lowell, 
Robert Southey, 
Walter Scott, 
E. Charles, 
Wilhelm Muller, 
Henry Ward Beecher, 
Charles Mackay, 

a b. a., . . 

C. B. A., . . 
From the German, 



Selections for Musical Accompaniment. 

A Winter Song, " St. Nicholas," 

Extract from Hiawatha's Wedding Feast, H. W. Longfellow, 

Hope's Song, Helen M. Winslow, 

Rock of Ages. Ella Maud Moore, 



Selections for Musical Accompaniment— 

Continued. 



TITLE 

TheAngelus, .... 

The Concert Rehearsal, 

The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet, 



AUTHOR 

Frances L. Mace, 
Wolstan Dixey, 
Celia Thaxter, 



Poets' Birthdays. 



William Cullen Bryant. 



A Bryant Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Bryant, 



Green River, . 

The Hurricane, 

The Night Journey of a River, 

The Third of November, 

The Violet, 

To William Cullen Bryant 



Compiler, 

Rev. Henry W. Bellows, 

John Bigelow, 

George William Curtis, 

Edwin P. Whipple, 

William Cullen Bryant, 



Fitz* Greene Ealleck, 



Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



Art 

An Emerson Alphabet, 

Emerson, . 

Extract concerning Emerson, 



from " Compensation," 
" " Works and Days, 
The Concord Fight, 
The Rhodora, .... 



Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
Compiler, 

Elizabeth C. Kinney, 
Rev. C. A. Bartol, 
George Willis Cooke, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
Protap C. Mozoomdar, 
Horace E. Scudder, 
Ralph Waldo Emerson, 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



A Holmes Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Holmes, 



International Ode, .... 
James Russell Lowell's Birthday Festival, 

Our Autocrat, 

The Two Streams, . 
Under the Washington Elm. 



Compiler, 

George William Curtis, 
Charles W. Eliot, 
Wm. Sloane Kennedy, 
Rev. Ray Palmer, 
Frances H. Underwood, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 

John Greenleaf Whittier, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 

It it it 



Poets' Birthdays— Continued. 

TITLE i 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
A Longfellow Alphabet, . . . Compiler, 
f'harles Sumner, 
Extract concerning Longfellow, 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 
Loss and Gain, 

Musings, 

The City and the Sea, 



H. W. Longfellow, 
George William Curtis, 
Rev. O. B. Frothingham, 
Rev. M. J. Savage, 
Richard H. Stoddard, 
John Greenleaf Whittier, 
William W. Story, 
E. W. Longfellow, 



James Russell Lowell. 



Abraham Lincoln, . 
A Lowell Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Lowell, 



Freedom, 

The First Snowfall, 

To James Russell Lowell, 

Wendell Phillips, . 



James Russell Lowell, 

Compile?', . 
David W. Bartlett, 
Rev. H. R. Haweis, 
" North British Review, 
W. C. Wilkinson, 
Frances H. Underwood, 
James Russell Lowell, 

li << 41 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
James Russell Lowell, 



John Greenleaf Whittier. 



A Whittier Alphabet, 
Extract concerning Whittier, 



The Light that is Felt, . 
The Moiai Warfare, 
To Children of Girard, Pa., 
John G. Whittier, . 



Compiler, . 
John Bright, 
Horace E. Scudder, 
Richard H. Stoddard, 
Frances H. Underwood, 
Rev. David A. Wasson, 
John Greenleaf Whittier, 



James Russell Lowell, 



Temperance. 

It Is Coming, .... 
The Cry of Personal liberty, 
The Great National Scourge, 
The Temperance Pledge, 
Water. 



Words of Cheer, Thomas H. Barker, 



M. Florence Mosher, 
Rt. Rev. Bishop Ireland, 

Thos. Francis Marshall, 



The Seasons. 

TITLE AT7THOR 

An April Day Mrs. Southey, 

An Autumn Day, ..... Margaret E. Sangster, 

A Song of Waking, .... Katharine Lee Bates, 

A Summer Day, .... 

December Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 

Early Autumn Dart Fairthorne, 

Faded Leaves, Alice Gary, 

Frost Work, Mary E. Bradley, 

Indian Summer, John Greenleaf Whittier, 

January, Rosaline E. Jones, 

June, .... 

May, .... 

November, Hartley Coleridge, 

October, William Cullen Bryant, 

September, 1815 William Wordsworth, 

Talking in Their Sleep, .... Edith M. Thomas, 

The Spring, Mary Howitt, 

The Voice of Spring, .... Mrs. Hemans, 

Winter, Robert Southey, 

Flowers. 

A Bunch of Cowslips, .... .... 

A September Violet, .... .... 

Chrysanthemums, Mrs. Mary E. Dodge, 

Daffodils, Robert Herrick, 

Ferns, ... 

Flower Dreams, ... 

Golden Rod, Lucy Larcom, 

No Flowers ... 

Oh, Golden Rod, W. L. Jaquith, 

Ragged Sailors ... 



Sweet Peas ... 

The Daisy, John Mason Good, 

The Golden Flower, .... Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
The Message of the Snow-Drop, . . .... 

The Trailing Arbutus John Greenleaf Whittier, 

The Wild Violet Hannah F. Gould, 

To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell, 

Lincoln's Birthday. 

Abraham Lincoln, James A. Garfield, 

Abraham Lincoln's Place in History, . Bishop John P. Newman, 

Abraham Lincoln, the Martyr, . . Henry Ward Beecher, 



Lincoln's Birthday— Continued. 



TITLE 

Address of Abraham Lincoln, 
Lincoln, .... 



AUTHOR 



Lincoln's Birthday, 

The Religious Character of President 



Ida Vose Woodbury, 



Lincoln, 



Bev. P. D. Gurley, D. D. t 



Washington's Birthday. 



Crown Our Washington, 
George Washington, .... 
Original Maxims of George Washington, 
Our Washington, . . . 
The Birthday of Washington, 
The Character of Washington, 
The Faith of Washington, . 
The Memory of Washington, 
The Twenty-second of February, 
The Unselfishness of Washington, 
The Washington Monument, 
Washington, .... 
Washington a Model for Youth, 
Washington's Birthday, . 
Washington's Fame, 
Washington's Training, 



Hezekiah Bulterworth, 



Eliza W. Durbin, 
Bufus Choate, . 
Henry Cabot Lodge, 
Frederic B. Coudert, 
E. Everett. 

William Cullen Bryant^ 
Robert Treat Paine, 
Robert C. Winthrop, 



Timothy Dwight, 
Margaret E. Sangster, 
Asher Bobbins, 
Charles W. Upham, 



Arbor Day. 

Arbor Day History, .... 
Every-day Botany, .... 

Song of Arbor Day, .... 
Song of the Maple, .... 

Plant a Tree, 

The Cedars of Lebanon, 

The Little Brown Seed in the Furrow, 

The Pine Tree, 

The Song of the Pine, .... 
The Tree's Choice, .... 

Three Trees, 

What Do We When We Plant the Tree? 



K. G. Wells, 
Katherine H. Perry, 
Sarah J. Pettinos, 
B. M. Streeter, 
Lucy Larcom, 
Letitia E. Landon, 
Ida W. Benham, 



James Buckham, 
Grace B. Carter, 
Charles H. Crandall, 
Henry Abbey, 



Decoration Day. 

A Ballad of Heroes, .... Austin Dobson, 

Army of the Potomac, .... ... 

Between the Graves, .... Harriet Prescott Spofford, 

Decoration Day Wallace Bruce, 

Decoration Hymn, William H. Bandatt, 

Flowers for the Brave Celia Thaxter, 



Decoration Day— Continued. 



TITLE 

Flowers for the Fallen Heroes 
For Our Dead, 
Little Nan, 

Memorial Day, . , 
Ode for Decoration Day, 
O Martyrs Numberless, . 
Our Comrades, 
Our Heroes' Graves, 
Our Honored Heroes, 
Sleep, Comrades, Sleep, 
Tbe Heroes' Day, . 
The Silent Grand Army, 
The Soldier's Burial, 



E. W. Chapman. 
Clinton Scollard. 



Margaret Sidney, 
Henry Peterson, 



S. F. Smith, 

E. W. Longfellow, 



E. M. E. C, 
Caroline Norton, 



Flag Day. 



No Slave Beneath the Flag, 

Ode to the American Flag, 

Our Cherished Flag, 

Our Flag. . 

" Rally Round the Flag! 

The American Flag, 

The Flag, 

The Flag of Our Country, 

The Flower of Liberty, 

The Stars and Stripss, 



George Lansing Taylor, 

Joseph Rodman Drake, 

Montgomery, 

Eenry Ward Beecher, 

A. L. Stone, 

Henry Ward Beecher, 

Eenry Lynden Flash, 

Robert C. Winthrop, 

Oliver Wendell Eolmes, 



July Fourth. 



A New National Hymn, 

" Fourth of July," . 

Freedom's Natal Day, . 

The Declaration of Independence 

The Nation's Birthday, . 

The New Liberty Bell, . 

The Principles of the Revolution 



F. Marion Crawford, 
J. Pierpont, 
Elizabeth M. Griswold, 
John Quincy Adams, 
Mary E. Vandyne, 
E. B. C., . . 
Josiah Quincy, . 



Labor Day. 



Idleness a Crime, Eenry B. Carringion, 

Knights of Labor, T. V. Powderly, 

Labor, Rev. Orville Dewey, 

No Excellence without Labor, . . William Wirt, 

Opportunity to Labor, .... Thomas Brackett Reed, 
The Dignity of Labor, ........ 

Toil .... 

Work, Thomas Carlyle % ; 



Thanksgiving. 



TITLE 



A Thanksgiving Prayer, 

For a Warning, . . * 

Give Thanks, . . . . 

Harvest Hymn, 

How the Pilgrims Gave Thanks, 

Our Thanksgiving Accept, . 

Thanksgiving, 

" Among the Greeks 

" " " Jews, 

" for His House, 

" Hymn, 

Ode, . 
Thanksgivings of Old, . 
That Things are No Worse, Sire, 
The First Boston Thanksgiving— July, 1631, 
The First English Thanksgiving in New 

York 

The First National Thanksgiving, 
The First Thankgiving Proclamation 

Issued by George Washington, 
The Day of Thanksgiving, 
The Old Thanksgiving Days, 
Washington's Proclamation, 



C. B. Le Bow, 



John Greenleaf Whittier 
W. D. Howells, 



Bobert Herrick, 



John Greenleaf Whittier, 
E. A. Smuller, 
Helen Hunt Jackson, 



Henry Ward Beecher, 
Ernest W. Shurtleff, 



Christmas. 

A Christmas Thought, .... Lucy Larcom, 

" " about Dickens, Bertha S. Scranton, 

Question, . . . Bev. Minot J. Savage, 
A Merry Christmas and A Glad New Ye&r,George Cooper, 

A Schemer, Edgar L. Warren, 

A Secret, Mrs. G. M. Howard, 

A Telephone Message, .... .... 

Bells of Yule, Alfred Tennyson, 

Christmas Bells, H. W. Longfellow, 

" in Olden Time, Sir Walter Scott, 

" Roses, May Biley Smith, 

Ode on Christmas, J. E. Clinton, 

Old Christmas, .... 

*' Quite Like a Stocking," . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 

The Day of Days, .... 

The Christmas Peal Harriet Prescott Spofford, 

The Little Christmas-Tree, . . . Susan Coolidge, 

The Little Mud-Sparrows, . . . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, 

The Merry Christmas-Time, . . George Arnold, 

The Nativity, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 

The Star in the West, .... Hezekiah Butterworth, 



New Year's, 



TITLE 

Address to the New Year, 

A New Year, . 

A New Year's Address, 

A New Year's Guest, 

Another Year, 

Dawn of the Century, 

Grandpa and Bess, 

New Year's Day, 

New Year's Resolve, 

Next Year, 

One More Year, 

On the Threshold, . 

Ring, Joyful Belle! 

The Book of the New Year, 

The Child and the Year, 

The New Year, 

The Passing Year, . 



AUTHOR 

Dinah Unlock Graik, 
Margaret E. Sangster, 
Edward Brooks, 
Eliza F. Moriarty, 
Thomas O'Hagan, 
AnnaH. Thome, 
E. Huntingdon Miller, 



Ella Wheeler Wilcox % 

Nora Perry, 

A. Norton, 

A. H. Baldwin, 

Violet Fuller, 



Celia Thaxteiy 
George Cooper, 



H ten Peeks' Course in Elocution 



By J. V. Coombs, formerly Professor of English Literature and 
Elocution in Eureka College, Eureka, 111. Assisted by Virgil A. 
Pinkley, Principal of the Department of Elocution in School of Music, 
Cincinnati, Ohio. Revised and Enlarged by C. H. Harne, Professor 
of Elocution and Reading in Salina Normal University, Salina, Kan- 
sas. Cloth, 415 Pages. Price, $/.££. 

Many good books on the Theory of Elocution have 
been published — choice selections are plentiful, but very 
few authors have combined, with the Essentials of Elocu- 
tion, a good variety of proper exercises for practice. In 
Part I, the author has briefly outlined the best way to teach 
a beginner to read. Part II contains a full discussion of 
Dictionary Work, the value of which cannot be over- 
estimated. Part III contains helpful suggestions to 
Teachers of Elocution. Part IV (the largest and most 
important part) contains a thorough discussion of the 
Elements of Elocution, each principle being carefully 
considered. Part V comprises a splendid collection of 
Humorous, Dramatic and Oratorical selections for prac- 
tice — the whole being an ideal work for teachers to use 
with classes which have only a brief period of time to 
devote to the subject. 

The chapters devoted to Elocution have been so 
divided that they can be easily completed by a class in 
ten weeks' time as follows : 

1st Week. Outline of Elocution 

2d Week. Respiration and Breathing 

3rd Week. Physical Culture (Calisthenics) 

4th Week. Articulation 

5th Week. Orthoepy (Pronunciation) 

6th Week. Vocal Culture 

7th Week. Qualities of the Voice 

8th Week. The Art of Vocal Expression 

9th Week. Gesture 

10th Week. Gesture 

A great variety of selections, Humorous, Dramati- 
and Oratorical, illustrating the various principles studied 
immediately follow the Lessons. These are to be used to 
test the work that is done by the class from week to week. 

Sample copies will be furnished to Teachers 0/ Elocution am 
classes supplied at $1.00 

HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers 
31-33-35 West 15th Street New York City 



Over one hundred pieces that have actually taken frizes in 
Prize Speaking Contests. 

Pieces 

That 

Have Taken 

Prizes 

Selected by A. H. Craig, author of "Craig's New 
Common School Question Book" (of which over 189,- 
000 copies have been sold) and Binney Gunnison, 
(Harvard), Instructor in the School of Expression, 
Boston, Mass., and author of "New Dialogues and 
Plays." 

The compilers spent nearly three years' time in col- 
lecting the pieces for this book. All have actually 
taken one or more prizes at some Prize Speaking 
Contest. 

Among the selections will be found : The Aspir- 
ations of the American People ; The Storming of 
Mission Ridge ; Opportunities of the Scholar; The 
Elements of National Wealth ; Duty of Literary Men 
to America; The Future of the Philippines; True 
Courage; The Boat Race ; The Teacher the Hope of 
America; A Pathetic Incident of the Rebellion ; The 
Permanence of Grant's Fame; The Province of History; 
The Sermon ; The Yacht Race ; The Soul of the 
Violin; Opinions Stronger Than Armies ; Not Guilty. 



Bound in cloth. Price $1.25 



HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 
3J-35 West *5th Street New York City 



These new pieces are just the kind that will arouse an audieflCtf 
to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. , 

Ne c a> 
Pieces 
That Witt 
Take Prizes 

Selected and adapted by Harriet Blackstone, Teacher 
of Elocution and Reading, Galesburg High School, 
Galesburg, 111. 

To satisfy the constantly increasing demand for new 
Pieces for Prize Speaking Contests, the author (with the 
permission of the authors and publishers) has adapted 
a number of the choicest selections from the most cele- 
brated works of our best known writers. 

Among others will be found: Alice's Flag — from 
Alice of Old Vincennes, by Maurice Thompson; The 
Wonderful Tar Baby — from Uncle Remus, by Joel 
Chandler Harris ; Through the Flood — from Beside 
the Bonnie Brier Bush, by Ian MacLaren ; The Shep- 
herd's Trophy — from Bob, Son of Battle, by Alfred 
Ollivant , Grandma Keeler Gets Grandpa Keeler Ready 
for Sunday School — from Cape Cod Folks, by Sally 
Pratt McLean ; The Angel and the Shepherds — from 
Ben Hur, by Lew Wallace ; The Queen's Letter — from 
Rupert of Hentzau, by Anthony Hope ; etc. Each 
selection is especially suited for Prize Speaking Contests. 



Bound in cloth. Price $1.25 



HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 
31-35 West *5tb Street New York City 



ELOCUTION, READING AND SPEAKING 

Pieces for Prize Speaking Contests . . $1.25 

Compiled by A. II. Craig and Binney Gunnison. 
Very few books of declamations and recitations contain 
selections especially suited for Prize Speaking Contests 
The compilers spent nearly three years in collecting the 
pieces contained in this volume, nearly every one of which 
has taken a prize in some contest. 

Pieces for Every Occasion .... $1.25 

Compiled by Caroline B. Le Row. A collection of 
nezu and popular pieces suitable for Lincoln's Birthday, 
Washington's Birthday, Arbor Day, Flag Day, Easter, 
May Day, Decoration Day, Graduation and Closing Days, 
Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's 
Day and every other public occasion. 

Three-Minute Declamations for College Men $1.00 

Compiled by Harry Cassell Davis, A. M. Ph. D. and 
John C. Bridgman, A. B. A collection of the best 
speeches and addresses of all the well known orators and 
writers, among the number being Chauncey M. Depew, 
Gen. Horace Porter, Pres. Eliot, Bishop Potter, Phillips 
Brooks, James Russell Lowell, Benjamin Harrison, Mark 
Twain, James A. Garfield, etc. 

Three-Minute Readings for College Girls. . $1.00 

Compiled by Harry Cassell Davis, A. M., Ph. D. A 
book containing the choicest thoughts and writing of the 
most representative women of America. Among the con- 
tributors will be found Margaret E. Sangster, Clara Bar- 
ton, Frances E. Willard, Kate Douglas Wiggin, Susan 
Coolidge, Amelia Barr, Mary Dodge and others. 



Fenno's Eloeution $1.25 

By Frank S. Fenno, A. M., F. S. Sc. Embraces a 
comprehensive and systematic series of exercises for ges- 
ture, calisthenics and the cultivation of the voice, together 
with a collection of nearly 150 literary gems for reading 
and speaking. Designed for use as a text book and for 
private study. 

A Ten Weeks' Course in Elocution . . $1.25 

By J. V. Coombs assisted by Virgil A. Pinkley. Re- 
vised and enlarged by C. H. Name. The book is divided 
into five parts. Part /discusses the best ways to teach a 
beginner to read. Part II contains a full discussion of 
Dictionary Work, the value of which cannot be overes- 
timated. Part III contains helpful suggestions to 
Teachers of Elocution. Part /F(the largest and most 
important part) contains a thorough discussion of the 
Elements of Elocution. Part V comprises a splendid 
collection of Humorous, Dramatic and Oratorical selec- 
tions for practise — the whole being an ideal work for 
teachers to use with classes which have only a brief period 
to devote to the subject. 

Manual of Elocution and Reading . . . $1.10 

By Dr. Edward Brooks. The work is divided into 
two parts, Theoretical and Practical. The principles are 
clearly stated and the illustrations are taken from the best 
classics in the language. 

How to Use the Voice $1.25 

By Ed. Amherst Ott. Designed for use as a text book 
of Elocution in High Schools and Colleges and for self- 
instruction. It explains fully the vocal phenomena and 
teaches students how to build up a voice that will meet 
the demands of the platform. 



New Pieces That Will Take Prizes . . $1.25 

Selected and adapted by Harriet Blacksto7ie. This 
book contains a collection of the choicest selections from 
the most celebrated works of the best known writers, 
among the number being : — Alice's Flag, from Alice of 
Old Vincennes by Maurice Thompson; The Wonderful 
Tar Baby, from Uncle Remus by Joel Chandler Harris; 
Through the Flood, from Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush 
by Ian MacLaren, etc. These new pieces are just the 
kind that will arouse an audience to the highest pitch of 
enthusiasm. 



A Well Planned Course in Reading . . $1.00 

By Caroline B. Le Row. There has been a long felt 
want for a book containing new selections for classes in 
Reading with some brief instruction in the Art of Read- 
ing. Miss Le Row has satisfied this want. She has 
made a life-study of Elocution and Reading ; having 
taught these branches both at Smith and Vassar Colleges. 



How to Attract and Hold An Audience . $1.00 

By Dr. J. Berg Esenwein. Every clergyman, every 
teacher, every man or woman occupying an official posi- 
tion, who is likely ever to have occasion to enlist the 
interest, to attract and hold the attention of one or more 
hearers, and convince them — will find in Esenwein's 
" How to Attract and Hold an Audience," a clear, con- 
cise, complete handbook which will enable him to succeed. 

Thorough, concise, methodical, replete with common 
sense, complete — these words describe fitly this new book; 
and in his logical method, in the crystal-like lucidity of 
his style, in his forceful, incisive, penetrating mastery of 
this subject, the author has at one bound placed himself 
on a plane with the very ablest teacher-authors of his day. 



The Best American Orations of Today . $1.25 

Selected and arranged by Harriet Blackstone. It has 
been the aim of the compiler to embody in this volume 
the best thoughts of the best Americans of this distinctively 
notable period in the history of our own nation — men who 
are most promi7ient in its affairs, and who stand as the 
highest types of honesty, intelligence and useful citizenship 
— for the emulation of the youth of our land. The 
addresses have, for the most part, been selected by the 
authors themselves, as being suited for the collection. 

Selected Readings from the Most Popular 

Novels $1.25. 

Compiled and arranged by William Mather Lewis, A 
M. For use of Public Readers, and in the Departments 
of English Literature and Public Speaking in Schools and 
Colleges. 

The art of public reading has fallen into disrepute 
among people of refinement, owing to the fact that many 
readers, professional as well as amateur, insist upon pre- 
senting to their hearers selections which in no way come 
up to the standards of good literature. It is with the 
desire to better the quality of work on the platform and in 
the class room that this book has been published. 

The Model Speaker By Philip Lawrence . $1.10 

A Southern Speaker Compiled by D. B. Ross 1.00 

Acme Declamation Book {paper .30) . . .50 

Handy Pieces to Speak {On separate cards). .50 
New Dialogues and Plays {Primary, Intermediate, 

Advanced) By Bitiney Gunnison . . 1 .50 
How to Gesture {New Illustrated Edition) , 

By Ed, Amherst Ott. 1.001 



A Welcome Gift in Any Home 

FOUR GREAT SUCCESSES 

Compiled by college men 

Endorsed by college presidents 

Programed by college glee clubs 

Rah-rah'd by college students 

Brothered by college alumni 

Sistered by college alumna 

WORDS AND MUSIC THROUGHOUT 

Songs of An the Colleges 

Attractive and durable cloth binding, $1.30 postpaid 

NeiiMdit. with 104 songs added for 67 other colleges. Over 70 
college presidents have actually purchased this volume to have 
at their own homes, so they tell us, for the students on social 
occasions. Ten editions have gone into many thousands of 
ponies. If you have a piano but do not play \ the pianola, apol- 
lo, cecilian, chase & baker, and other "piano-players" will 
play many of these songs for you and your friends to sing 

Songs of the Western Colleges 

• Notable and durable cloth bindings $1.23 postpaid 

Songs of the Eastern Colleges 

Novel ar.d durablt cloth binding, $1.23 postpaid 

Ideally complete portrayal of the musical and social side, the 
joyous side, of the student life in our Westernand Eastern col- 
leges respectively. Plenty of the old favorites of all colleges, 
while crowded with the new songs which are sung— many never 
before in print. To own all three of above books is to possess 
the most complete, the most adequate illustration ever attempt- 
ed of this phase of the genius, the spirit, of young America 

New Songs for College Glee Clubs 

Paper, JO Cents, postpaid 

Not less than twenty humorous hits, besides numer- 
ous others, sentimental and serious. Not a single 
selection in this book but has been sung by some glee 
club locally to the delight of an " encoring audience." 
Never before published, they are really new 

Glee club leaders will appreciate a collection every piece in 
which by the severe test of both rehearsal and concert, is 
right— the musical notation, the harmony of the voice parts, the 
syllabification, the rhythm, the rhyme, the instrumentation, 
and last, but not least, with audiences, the catchonativeness 

HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers 

31-33=35 West 15th Street New York City 



New Dialogues and Plays 

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, AGES TEN TO FIFTEEN 



ADAPTED FROM THE POPULAR WORKS OF 
WELL-KNOWN AUTHORS 




HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers 
31-33-35 West 15TH Stbeet, New York City 



LB S '05 



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Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Dec. 2007 

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